


Mail Order Bucky

by 27dragons, tisfan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Baseball, Childbirth, Clubbing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flowers, Homophobia, Illnesses, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Online Dating, Oral Sex, Paparazzi, Parent Tony Stark, Pining, Pregnancy, Pregnancy complications, Sex, Siblings Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23919244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Russia is a dangerous place to be gay, and it seems time is running out for Bucky. His sister Natasha has a plan, however -- she will marry a wealthy American who will bring both of them to the U.S., where they can start over. It’s a sound plan, right up until Bucky realizes he’s falling for his sister’s fiancé.Tony needs a wife, and quickly, so he can look not only responsible but parental when he challenges his ex for custody of their unborn child. He seems to have found the perfect solution in Natalia -- she is poised, stunningly beautiful, and perfectly willing to play along with Tony’s plan. The only problem is Tony’s persistent attraction to Natalia’s brother.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 930
Kudos: 991





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monobuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monobuu/gifts).



Moscow was supposed to be a safe city. The streets were safe, after all. That was what everyone said. There were no bad neighborhoods in Moscow. No place that a woman needed to feel afraid to go for a run at night. No place where an outsider would be worried that some pick thief would steal their wallet.

No gangs. No, not in Moscow.

The neighborhoods were all about equality; the well off and the wealthy and the poor and the scraping by lived side by side.

This wasn’t America, after all. The United States, the people who called themselves _American_ like they’d forgotten there were more countries on that side of the globe than just theirs.

James “Bucky” Barnes knew all about Americans.

He had been one, once.

Or, so everyone told him. He didn’t remember.

He’d been found at a relatively young age, after an accident involving his American tourist parents, who’d died. Bucky didn’t remember any of that; he had vague recollections of a girl, a sister, but they were blurry memories, and whenever he tried to think about them, his head ached and he was sad. After sinking into depression several times, he stopped trying to think about it. Accepted his life. He was passed from agency to agency while someone tried to decide what to do with him, when he was adopted by a reclusive man, Ivan Petrovich, who had made it a habit to rescue orphans in unusual circumstances.

With no one to claim him in the states, he was raised alongside his foster sister Natasha Romanoff. He considered himself as Russian as anyone, but apparently, not everyone did.

He spoke Russian perfectly; his accent was a little more southern than Moscow, but when had that ever mattered. He looked Russian, he dressed Russian.

But somehow, they always knew. The way they always knew that the girls he danced with and took out didn’t mean anything to him, they never would.

He didn’t have much further to go. He turned the corner, took a few deep breaths. The air was so cold it crackled in his chest, like it was freezing his blood. Just his imagination. He never minded the cold. Not really.

Three houses down, and up the flight of stairs.

He knocked. He should have called her, to see if she was home. He was afraid that if he stopped walking even long enough to punch in her number, he would have fallen. And he was pretty sure if he fell, he wouldn’t be able to get up again. Maybe she wasn’t home, if she wasn’t home and he had to try to break open her lock, people would notice. They would see her door, broken and open, and--

He didn’t know.

She had to be home. 

He stared at the door. There was a bloody smear on the door. She’d need to wipe that away or people would see it. People would know where he’d gone.

The _wrong_ people.

Or he was the wrong people. Maybe it was him. He always seemed to be alone, and they always had friends, so maybe he was the wrong one.

He knocked again because she hadn’t answered, and she had to be home, if Natasha wasn’t home, then Bucky was dead, he was dead and he wasn’t quite ready to die yet.

Not yet.

There was so much he hadn’t done.

So much he wanted to do.

Never make plans, Natasha had told him. We are Russian, and if you are Russian, and you make plans, something bad always happens.

 _I would have liked to have seen Montana,_ the ghost of a movie star said in his head. Bucky’s English was good. Better than Sean Connery’s Russian, that was for damn sure.

The door opened. “What? It is too late-- Bucky!” Natasha’s eyes were suddenly wide and frightened. “What happened? No, no, not here, not now. Come in, quickly!” She pulled him into her home.

“Wipe the door,” he mumbled. “I think I bled on it.”

“I am not surprised,” she returned, leading him toward the little bathroom. “Here, sit, I will get a cloth and some bandages.” She turned on the water so it would heat up and dashed back out. He heard the door open again, and then close after a moment; she’d heard him about the blood.

She was back a few minutes later with a washcloth and a first aid kit. She wetted the cloth and wrung it out with small, strong hands, and started dabbing gently at the bruises and cuts on Bucky’s face. “Who did this?” she demanded.

“It’s not so bad,” he said. “You should see the other guys.” He barked out a little laugh, bitter and hollow, even to his own ears. He might have even been okay if they’d just been drunk and angry and looking for a fight. Half of them were. But Rumlow had been with them, and Rollins. And Rollins had a knife.

He still had it, as a matter of fact, although Bucky had left it sticking out of Rollin’s back. Probably not dead, more’s the pity. But it did mean they’d be looking for him, extra hard. 

Natasha clicked her tongue as she started in on another set of cuts. “The other guys are not on my doorstep, half-dead,” she chided. She reached for the bottle of iodine. “Was it Hydra, again?”

“Well, not yet,” Bucky said. “If I’m very unlucky, Rollins might be all the way dead by morning. Yeah. Yeah, it was Hydra. Bottles and clubs and brass knuckles. The usual. Except Rollins had a knife.” That was the last thing he needed, to be wanted for murder, despite it being self-defense. Yeah, who was going to believe him? Bucky laughed again, breathless with it, knowing he was probably going into shock and there was nothing he could do about it.

Natasha’s face twisted, anger and fear and helplessness. “We should get out,” she said softly, testing the edges of a particularly nasty bruise to see if the bone underneath was broken. “We could leave.”

“Ow,” Bucky complained, although it really didn’t hurt. Not specially. Everything hurt, everything hurt so much it all blended over into one giant agony that was too big to handle. He couldn’t focus on it, it was bigger than he was. He thought there wasn’t anything worse than pain, except then Rumlow had grabbed his collar, held him against the wall. “ _Goluboi_ ,” Rumlow had hissed. Blue on blue, one of the slang terms for homosexual. Bucky had known them all before he was even ten. 

But how the fuck did Rumlow know? Bucky kept that part of his life to himself, to deep and secret places.

It didn’t matter, Rumlow knew. Rumlow knew, which would mean all of Hydra would know.

“Bucky,” Natasha said sharply, and he realized he’d been drifting. “We should _leave_. Before they kill you. I have been thinking. I have a plan.”

“If you tell me I should marry you so that no one will ever suspect, I hate to tell you that no one will ever look at us and see anything other than brother and sister, sunshine,” Bucky said. He laughed again. Petrovich had tried that a few times, setting them up for one of his black market schemes. It didn’t go well, and they’d been lucky to live through it.

“No,” she scoffed. She finished painting him with iodine and rinsed the cloth out in the sink. “You are not the one I shall marry.”

“Thank Christ,” Bucky said, then blinked. “What, you got someone in mind?” It was a funny time to be talking about Nat’s social life, but what the hell, he could use a distraction. “Is it that Alexei guy, because Nat, he is no good. I don’t think that pilot’s license he keeps flashing around is real. No one who could actually fly a plane is that much of a show off.”

“No, not Alexei,” Natasha said patiently. “Alexei lives _here_. If I marry Alexei, we will not _leave_.”

Bucky shook his head. “And where will we go, Natasha? You think there’s anywhere in Russia that I’ll fit in, that I’ll belong? That people won’t stare at me, until they figure out what’s wrong with me? Rumlow knows. He knows it. He said it like he’s got _proof_.”

Maybe it was that boy, that lovely boy with the lovely mouth and how he’d told Bucky it was his nineteenth birthday, and wouldn’t Bucky want to blow him, as a birthday present?

Maybe the boy had talked. 

Bucky didn’t know.

Natasha shook her head sadly. “No,” she agreed. “Nowhere in Russia.” She finished taping down a bandage over the worst of the cuts and took Bucky’s hand, tugging him carefully to his feet. “Come to the computer and see what I have found.”

He tugged his hair with one hand, coming away sticky with blood. He needed a shower, and to fall into a soft bed for a week. “I’m gonna shave my head,” he said, nonsensical. Maybe if he looked like one of those idiot neo-nazis, people would leave him alone. He was told he had a really good murder strut, when his hair wasn’t blowing in his face.

“You would look terrible, with a shaved head,” Natasha said matter-of-factly. “You are too vain for such a thing.” She woke the somewhat elderly computer and opened the browser. She’d been to the site a few times, from the way it popped up. 

It was in English, with a Russian translation on the side. He squinted; the colors were terrible. Whoever told them that red font on a black background was… he didn’t even know, sexy or something? was delusional. “ _AnastasiaDate?_ What is this, international dating agency-- a mail order bride? What?”

“I,” Natasha said firmly, “will marry an _American_.”

“That is a _terrible_ idea,” Bucky said. “Like, that might be the singular most stupid idea you’ve ever had.”

Natasha sniffed at him. “If it gets us out of here, then it is a _brilliant_ idea.”

“No, then it’ll just be a dumb idea that works. It won’t be a good idea. There’s a difference,” Bucky said. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what the difference was, exactly. But there had to be one. “This is like… a _Pinky and the Brain_ plan. Only you’re going with the rubber pants and five thousand pounds of blueberries.”

She _tsk_ ed at him again. “I am not going into this blind,” she said. “I have many computer skills. I have _researched_ these men. I know who they are. I have decided which one to choose.” She clicked on a link. A password box opened, and Natasha entered the code without a single hesitation. It opened on a profile screen.

“I thought the way this worked, they picked you,” Bucky said. “Which is how you end up with some sixty year old guy with gout who thinks you ought to call him-- _woah_.”

Bucky stopped short, staring at the profile picture. The man was smiling at the camera over the rims of his fancy tinted sunglasses, an insouciant little smirk on his wide, generous mouth. 

“That is the way it works for most people,” Natasha agreed placidly. “I am not _most people_.”

“No, you’re my pain in the ass little sister for whom the words _I dare_ are a life motto,” Bucky said, unable to look away from the image. Brown eyes, casually messy hair that looked like he just rolled out of bed, and not likely his own, a fancy little mustache and goatee, and a smile that practically challenged someone to try to kiss it off him. “Why would this guy need a mail order wife? You’d think he could just grab the first supermodel off the street.”

“He needs someone he can trust,” Natasha said. She was watching Bucky, not the screen. “Or, failing that, someone who is beholden to him, enough not to betray the situation. My English is excellent; he can claim we have known each other for years.”

 _God, that was a pretty man_ , Bucky thought. A hedonist. There was so much spoiled, pleasure seeking life in his eyes. “And what’s the situation that he needs a wife he can trust?” Bucky managed to take his eyes off the profile picture to watch her. Long enough to see if she was going to lie to him.

His sister was an excellent liar. She had to be; they’d both been trained, young. Liars and cheats and smugglers and fighters. Freaking Russian version of Oliver Twist, they’d been.

Not anymore. Their foster father was dead and they both wanted out of that life.

Not that they ever got what they wanted.

“Can he trust you?”

She shrugged. “I do not expect to have a reason to turn on him.” She clicked through to a messaging screen; a conversation had already been taking place. “He is being sued. A woman who is pregnant wants him to pay for the child’s upkeep -- and rather more than that, as well. He wishes to counter-sue, to take custody of the child instead. Which suit will have more success if he is married when it goes to court. Preferably to a beautiful woman, tragically barren.”

“All right, I can see it,” Bucky said. “He needs a nanny. That’s great for you, if you can get him to snap up your bait, but I can’t imagine he’s going to take your foster brother as part of the package deal. He’s not going to want me sniffin’ around while he tries to make you into the ideal trophy wife. Not to mention, I’ll probably break his arm if he tries to push you into anything you don’t want.”

Natasha twisted around in her seat to give him a look that was both hurt and offended. “I am not some _amateur_ ,” she told him. “I am the only really viable candidate on his match list. And he is of course sympathetic to my wish to bring my brother and only living relative away with me.” She didn’t comment on the threat, not that he’d expected her to.

Bucky leaned closer, trying not to look at the photograph, even though the way the man was leaning made it seem like he was going to lounge right out of the computer and land sprawled on Nat’s desk. “Wait… _Tony Stark_? Like, billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist Tony Stark? How _the hell_ are you the only viable match on his list, that guy’s prime real estate.” 

“Because _AnastasiaDate_ has terribly out of date firewalls,” Natasha said cheerfully, “and laughably predictable database backup procedures.”

“Well, Petrovich would be proud of you,” Bucky said, his mouth twisting a little. “Pulling this off is really... Wow. Billionaire. It’s impressive. I’m sure your husband will be the perfect man for you.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Or,” she said pointedly, “the perfect man for _you_.”

“Oh, no, no, no, not one of these, Nat, no. You want to go to the United States and live the life of a pampered yacht princess, great, I’m there for you. You want me to come with you, I agree that Muscovite air stopped agreeing with me a while ago, change of climate might be good. But do not play at setting me up. No.” 

“Fine,” she sighed. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find your own American meat, once we’re there.” Her expression shifted and she reached out to take Bucky’s hand, gently. “It will be good for both of us,” she promised. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Safe. Bucky almost laughed. It was unlikely he was going to be much safer in the United States. Liberty and Justice for All. Hah. Fancy slogan for a corrupt country. But at least he’d be away from Rumlow. “You’re a good sister,” Bucky said. “The best. Your rich boy will be ridiculously stupid if he doesn’t value what you can give him.”

“Then we will just have to make certain he can recognize it,” she said. She kissed his cheek, the slightly less-painful one. “Lay low for a couple of weeks,” she advised. “You can sleep on my couch. And then we will go to America.”

Bucky balled up his fists and pulled a face, wiping childishly at non-existent tears. “I always cry at weddings.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t believe that he let you bring me along,” Bucky said, in Russian. He’d said this only about four hundred times or more. The first time he said “I can’t believe--” it was about the money. Stark had wired them enough money to pay off both leases, to get passports and papers that they needed, and to ship their essentials to New York before leaving. It probably wasn’t the last time he was going to say it, either.

Some things just bore repeating.

But his boots were, in fact, on US soil -- theoretically, the customs line existed in some nebulous not-any-country state, legally -- and he was getting ready to declare that he had no fruits or vegetables in his bag, and that he was in the US for an extended visit. According to Stark’s fancy lawyer, that would get him in the country fastest, and once Nat had her permanent resident status, he could apply for his.

“Of course he did,” Natasha said. She looked calm and collected, self-assured and, of course, very beautiful. She’d insisted on going into the bathroom before they got in line for customs, had been in there for what seemed like an hour, and come out in completely different clothes, her hair and makeup perfectly styled. A pair of sunglasses were perched on her head. “I am very persuasive.”

“Is that what you call it?” Bucky wondered. Nat was his sister, his best friend, and he’d seen her with mud in her hair, bruises on her face, and smelling like rotten eggs. And still, even then, she’d been beautiful. Of course she’d persuaded Stark to bring her brother. The man probably took one look at her and all his remaining brains dribbled out his mouth. Not a big deal, he was still pretty to look at, as well. 

She turned a practiced pout on him. “How could I possibly leave behind my brother, my dearest friend, my only living relative? Especially when things are so uncertain?”

“Can I remind you that you said that, the next time I want some of your dessert?” Bucky asked. They were getting closer to the customs agent. He got his passport and identification out of his jacket pocket, checked them, like they were going to randomly go blank if he didn’t look at them constantly. 

He still wasn’t sure this was real. It didn’t _feel_ real.

“Certainly,” Nat said loftily. “My husband-to-be is rich enough to provide dessert for us all.” She didn’t quite check her own papers, but she swept the hair off her shoulders in a gesture that Bucky recognized as an excuse to check the contents of her pockets and hiding spots.

They made it to the front of the line and were gestured forward by a tired-looking customs agent. “Passports?” He held out his hand, and Natasha placed her passport and visa in it. Bucky hadn’t even seen her take them out of her pocket.

Bucky got flagged for a check of his bag, probably not because the agent thought he was hiding a pomegranate in his carry-on, but because the agent was looking at Nat more than he was looking at what he was doing.

Finally, Bucky got his papers back, closed up his bag, and joined Nat on the other side of the line.

He didn’t quite fall on his knees, but he felt a little wobbly. “Well. We’re here. Now what?”

“Now,” Nat said, looking at the signs, “we will go out that door. And I will pretend that Star-- _Tony_ and I have known each other for years, and are delighted to finally be able to meet in person.” She nudged Bucky. “You should smile. Americans smile all the time, for no reason.”

Bucky not only did not smile, he deepened his scowl, which sent at least one person scurrying rapidly in another direction. He did, however, glance around to see if she was telling the truth. Rather a lot of people were smiling. But just as many people were glaring, or staring at their phones, or looking around with worried frowns. 

There were a couple of young women, cluttered together, all wearing matching tees, who smiled and simpered and giggled and _stared_ at him. He didn’t smile at them, either. “Let us find your husband, then.”

Natasha was smiling, of course. She pulled her suitcase along behind her, looking elegant and refreshed and not as if she had just spent many hours on planes and standing in interminable lines. Of course, _she_ had a husband-to-be to impress. She swept through the door into the larger section of the airport.

Half a dozen steps on, she nearly stumbled to a halt. Bucky, when he’d recovered from almost walking into her, followed her gaze and found a large, heavily-built man wearing a dark suit and holding a sign, on which had been printed “Romanova” in both English and Russian alphabets. The man was very patently and obviously _not_ Tony Stark.

Bucky tipped his head, studying the man. “I can take him, if I need to,” he said. “Go see what he wants from you.” The unspoken part of that sentence was that Nat could probably take the man down herself, if she needed to.

She fluffed her hair again and resumed walking. The smile, Bucky noticed, had disappeared. She stopped in front of the man with the sign and looked him up and down, not attempting to be subtle. “I am Natalia Romanova,” she said. “You are _not_ Tony Stark.”

The man’s scowl was not nearly as impressive as Bucky’s, which probably had a lot to do with the curly, greying hair and the terrible beard as anything. The man looked like someone’s bachelor uncle. “I have a badge for you,” he said, trying to juggle his sign and dig in his pockets at the same time, which resulted in the sign ending up on the floor, along with most of the contents of said pockets. 

Bucky, who’d been trained as a pick-thief for as long as he could remember, darted in to help clean up, and might also have helped himself to -- oh, nice, a fifty, along with some other cash -- from the man’s wallet before returning most of his things to him. He liked American money. It was simple and ugly, and spent literally everywhere Bucky’d ever wanted to be.

“I do not want a badge,” Nat said, frost creeping around the consonants of her words. “I want to know who you are, and why you are not the man I was supposed to meet. Have I been... _misinformed?_ ” She took half a step back, a wordless threat to turn around and get right back on a plane back to Moscow.

“ _Everyone_ has to have a badge, that’s protocol,” the man said. “Gets you in an’ out of Stark Industries, where you’re allowed access. I’m Hogan, Mr. Stark’s driver and head of security. He sent me to fetch you. And your bags. And your, erm. Brother.”

“Driver,” Nat repeated slowly.

“And head of security,” Hogan said, like that was important.

“My sister is not a stick,” Bucky muttered, speaking English. “She is not... _fetched_.”

“We have been many long hours in the air,” Nat said. “Perhaps I missed a message, en route. But I was given to understand that Tony would be meeting us personally.”

“Here, I’ve got, he said to call when you arrived--” Hogan said, and he was then trying to juggle two badges, his sign, and pull out his cell phone. Bucky grabbed the sign, rolled it up, and stuffed it in the nearest trash can. This man, _this man_ was head of security? To what, the local borscht shop? He began to doubt that Stark Industries was very secure.

“Turn the phone around Happy; she can’t see me, she can see right up your nose,” someone was saying on the video. “Ah, there you are darling, mwah, you look beautiful as always, I’m sure. Sorry, I just got caught up here in a thing, and then another thing, and Happy will take you back to my penthouse -- and any sightseeing or food or whatever they want, Happy, go crazy, have fun -- and I’ll… see you tonight. Mwah again, love you lots, peace.”

Nat looked a little stunned. As well she might; it wasn’t often that anyone managed to override her so thoroughly. She stared at the now-blank phone screen until Hogan tucked it back into his pocket. Then she looked slowly around, as if sizing up the airport, the people in it, and the situation all at once. Bucky could practically see the wheels spinning in her head as she considered all the alternatives.

“Well then,” she said finally. “I suppose we place ourselves in your hands, Mr. Hogan, and I will speak with Tony... later.” Bucky gave Stark even odds of surviving that encounter.

Hogan led them to baggage claim to grab their shiny-new-courtesy of Mr. Stark suitcases and then out to a…

“I didn’t know those were real,” Bucky said, leaning against his sister. The stretch limo was shiny and deep, rich black, with tinted windows. The license plate read _Stark 26_. Bucky was so busy admiring the car that he almost didn’t notice the girl standing near it, her blond hair loose around her face, and her expression one of avarice, right up until she smiled charmingly at his sister.

“Hi, Miss… Romanoff, is it? I’m Christine Everhart, with _Vanity Fair_ ,” she purred, like she was a giant cat getting ready to pounce. “Care to make a statement? Just a quick interview, a few questions?” She waved up a cameraman, laden down with so much equipment that the man looked like he was bent double. 

Natasha had put on the sunglasses as soon as they’d stepped outside. She did not smile for Everhart, but she nodded once. “Only a few,” she warned. “We are greatly tired from our travels.”

“Of course, of course,” Everhart nodded, looking sympathetic. “You know, our readers, fascinated with everything that happens around the great Tony Stark, and here you are, Miss Romanoff, from Moscow, was it? Just dropping in to visit during this tumultuous time in Tony’s life. Planning to stay a while?”

“That’s three questions right there,” Bucky said, loud and in Russian. The cameraman jumped about six inches in the air at the sound, and that was impressive, given what his equipment had to weigh.

“I certainly hope so,” Nat said smoothly, as if Bucky had not even spoken. “Tony and I have been corresponding for quite some time -- we have been friends for years. It’s very exciting to have the chance to meet in person.”

Everhart looked around, pointedly, “I can see Tony was very excited, at least. I’ve known Tony for years, too, and he never mentioned having a model-friend from _Russia._ Japan, yes, but not a Russian. Probably slipped his mind. You’ve been _friends_ , but you’ve never actually _met_ him. That’ll be a change.”

“Is there a question somewhere in all that? I think she’s not very good at her job,” Bucky said. He went around the back of the limo where Hogan was loading their bags. “Let me see your phone,” he said, holding out his hand like he expected to be obeyed. One swipe later -- why people thought they could hide one of those screen trace passwords, they always showed up as streaks on the glass -- and he was holding up the camera, taking pictures of Everhart and Nat. It didn’t take long to find “Boss” in Hogan’s contact list. He texted the picture. “You know this woman?”

Hogan glanced over. “Yeah, she’s one of the regulars on Mr. Stark’s gossip circuit.”

The phone vibrated in Bucky’s hand and he looked down to see a response to the text. _ffs, Happy, don’t let Christine get her claws into Nat before you’ve even left the airport._

“Come on, enough questions,” Bucky said, shoving Hogan’s phone back at him. “I am hungry, sleepy, and cranky. This is a bad combination.”

“If you’ve known Tony for so long,” Everhart continued, obviously trying to get a soundbite for her magazine, “what’s his favorite color?”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he handed his sister into the car. “Hot rod red,” Bucky said. “The same as my sister’s favorite lipstick.”

Everhart smiled, then, as if Bucky had said something _wonderful_. She stepped back to let him climb into the car, though, and just as Hogan reached to close it, she said, “I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again soon, Mr. Romanoff.”

“Let’s hope,” Bucky said. What he was hoping for and what she was hoping for were quite possibly diametrically opposed. Hogan shut the door, and a moment later, climbed behind the wheel. 

“So, where to? Penthouse, something to eat?” Hogan didn’t wait for instructions, but started driving immediately, pulling out of the airport parking and into traffic. 

“Look at this,” Bucky said in Russian, “there’s a _bar_ in here.” He found a few tiny bottles of vodka and opened two of them, handing one of them to Nat. “We made it.”

She held up her bottle and toasted him with it. “I am hurt that you doubted my plan. Of course we made it. Now we must ensure that we _stay_.” She tipped back the bottle, then sighed. “If even the very rich man has only mediocre vodka, we will have to find a way to import something drinkable.”

Bucky considered the state of his stomach versus his nerves. “Take us to this penthouse,” he told Hogan. “We can _order_ food.” He’d always wanted to try pizza, honestly. Real, _American_ pizza. 

“You got it,” Hogan said affably. “You change your mind, just hit that white button on the console.” And the partition between the driver’s compartment and the back slid soundlessly shut.

“I wonder what things could come up so urgent that it prevents you from meeting your future bride,” Bucky commented, looking out the window and trying not to gawk even though the only person who could see him was Nat. If he was the one getting married, he would have wanted to meet them as soon as possible.

Not that he would, in fact, ever get married.

“I do not know,” Nat said with a little scowl, “but I hope the reason is good.” She knocked back the rest of the extremely mediocre vodka and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes. “Perhaps it is. He did not become so wealthy by being idle, after all. I am tired; it makes me uncharitable.”

There were cars as far as Bucky could see. He was fairly certain he could walk -- carrying their bags -- and get there faster. But he was tired, too. “Come here, Natasha, lean on me. It will be all right.” Or Stark would find himself with a broken nose. There were other Americans. Surely someone would want Nat, who could afford her. Land of opportunity, right?


	3. Chapter 3

Tony checked his pocket at least twice on the elevator ride up to the penthouse, and examined the bunch of flowers in his hand minutely for even the most minuscule flaws. He really, _really_ should have been at the airport to greet Natalia and James, but there had been an honest-to-god fire alarm on the fabrication level, and Tony’d had to stick around to escort the fire and safety crew around, and to talk to the lawyers, and then he’d wanted to check in on the SI employees who’d been working on that floor when the main compression engine had exploded, to make sure none of the injuries were life-threatening. There had been press after that, of course. Frazzled, Tony had sent Happy to the airport just as the hoopla was winding down, because he’d then needed to get the day’s _actual work_ done.

The elevator made the soft _ding_ that meant it had passed all the public and SI-level floors and was now into the top few floors, the ones that only Tony and a very select few had access to. He straightened his shoulders, checked his tie in the dull reflection of the elevator wall, and tried to look both welcoming and contrite.

Possibly, he’d managed only to look slightly constipated, but, well... Natalia _probably_ wasn’t going to demand that he send them back home again right away.

He opened the door to the penthouse -- without knocking, it was his home, after all -- but he suddenly realized that was why all those corny tv shows did the “honey, I’m home” line as soon as someone walked in. It occurred to him that he might startle the brother and sister.

As it turned out, startling _them_ was the least of his immediate concerns.

His new wife-to-be was wearing a short dress that had probably once looked chic and a little sexy and was now just messy, hiked up to her thighs, and her feet were bare. She was sipping out of an extra large milkshake from Black Tap, dripping cotton candy down the side, and had a piece of half-eaten pepperoni pizza in the other hand. Her shoes were on the coffee table, next to a wide variety of open take out containers.

The brother, on the other hand, was hanging off the side of Tony’s favorite chair, moving along with his racing car in Mario Kart as he swore drunkenly in Russian and tried to swerve to make his little pixel car move onto the correct path.

They’d apparently had no difficulty in locating the liquor cabinet. Either that, or Happy had driven them to the local liquor store and they’d filled several paper bags. No, no, that was decidedly his bourbon there, he recognized the label.

The brother’s car crashed in a fiery ball, and he looked over, smiled sleepily. “Oh, look, your pretty husband boy is home, Natasha.”

_Pretty?_

Natalia managed to get fully upright -- it didn’t look like a _struggle_ , particularly, but she did sway quite a bit. “ _There_ you are,” she said. She blinked somewhat owlishly at him, then gave him what was probably meant to be a charming smile, but was just a little too wide and toothy. “We’ve been wondering where you were.”

“Working, for my sins,” Tony said. He offered her the flowers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the airport. There was an emergency. A real one, not like a _business_ emergency, but an actual, literal explosion. I hope Happy treated you guys okay. You’ve been, uh, settling in, I see.” _God, shut up, Tony,_ he admonished himself.

He’d known Natalia was breathtakingly beautiful. She’d sent him several pictures. But the brother... Tony hadn’t realized that James would be just as gorgeous, in person. Despite the terrible posture and eyes that weren’t entirely blinking in unison.

“Wasn’t sure what we’d like,” James said, like he was explaining. He slowly rolled off the chair until he was on the floor, looking up at Tony. “What if _pizza_ was terrible? So, we tried Chinese, and sushi, and-- oh, have you had these? So good, what are those little eel things again, Natasha?”

“Eel rolls,” Natalia answered, rolling her eyes. “The hamburgers were actually terrible,” she informed Tony. “But I like this milkshake.” She showed him the mostly-empty cup.

Somehow, despite everything, Tony was... charmed. He’d been braced for stiff awkwardness and shows of obviously faked affection and suspicion thinly veiled with gratitude. He’d been expecting all that. Had mentally rehearsed how to deal with it. Was ready for it.

He wasn’t ready for _this_ , and it wasn’t very often that anything or anyone took Tony by surprise. “Obviously,” Tony said, “I’m glad you’re enjoying your experiments with American cuisine. And that you’re... comfortable.” He came the rest of the way into the room and perched on the edge of the sofa, where he could watch them both.

“Your vodka is terrible,” Natalia informed him sadly. “But this... bourbon whiskey. This is acceptable substitute.”

Tony laughed. “One of the few things that Americans actually do very well,” he agreed. “Did you kill the whole bottle, or is there enough for me to have a drink?”

“There’s some,” James slurred. “I think there’s even a clean cup. Nat got her lipstick all over the other one. Your favorite color. Hot. Rod. Red. I think she’s going to write that up in her paper.” He was scavenging around through the containers on the table and came up with a glass, poured Tony a few fingers, and then walked on his knees over to where Tony was sitting.

“Thank you,” Tony said, taking the glass, rather firmly not admiring the angle of James’ jaw as he looked up at Tony. “Who’s going to write what up-- Christine? Everyone knows my favorite color is red; why would she print that?”

“I know that,” James said. “Hot rod red. We went to _thirty shops_ , at least, looking for lipstick that would match it. Natasha wanted to look perfect for you.” He glanced up. “Tell her she looks pretty, you’re remiss in your husbandly duties.” He hiccupped and swayed and fell back until he was on his butt, hands out behind him.

Tony somehow managed not to laugh. “Of course you’re beautiful,” he told Natalia. “I’m flattered you went to so much trouble for me.”

“He exaggerates,” Natalia said, pronouncing the word slow and carefully. “And should not be telling you such secrets, anyway,” she added, aiming a kick at James’ leg. It missed, but not by very much. She giggled. “You should tell James that he is pretty, too.”

James snorted, shook his head, and then, in fact, _batted his eyelashes_ at Tony like he was practicing to be a debutant in an old movie. “Don’t hate me, Natasha, for being more pretty than you.”

The laugh escaped him that time. “You’re both very pretty,” Tony assured them. James batted his eyelashes again, and Tony began to understand some of Natalia’s urgency about bringing James with her out of Russia, the things she had not quite said in their chats online. “If you’re done with dinner, maybe I should show you your rooms?”

“A whole room,” James said, “all for us? In Russia, we have only two room shack, with paper walls.” He snorted, his accent badly exaggerated. “Isn’t that what they say, in all those terrible movies?” He staggered to his feet, swayed dangerously. “Terrible vodka aside, I am not so very drunk. But we were on the plane a very, very long time. Show us to our room. You can tuck Natasha into bed. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not quite _that_ ignorant,” Tony said. He reached out, thinking to steady James’ swaying, but pulled his hand back at the glare he received. “Come on, then.” He looked around and picked up the suitcase that was sitting against the wall. The things they’d had shipped were waiting in the rooms Tony had set aside for them, a sort of guest apartment within the penthouse, two bedrooms and a shared bathroom and a little sitting room. He set the suitcase just inside the door and tapped the control on the wall to increase the polarization of the windows to maximum -- they almost certainly would not want to wake up with the sun.

James said something to his sister, Russian and guttural. He waved a hand around, displaying the room, then glanced at Tony. “Yeah, go ahead, you can keep him,” he said, decidedly, and then went into the bedroom on the left, closing the door behind him.

Natalia was standing there, tiny in her bare feet, holding her shoes by the straps on one finger. She raised an eyebrow at him, as if expecting-- something.

“Oh!” Tony patted his pocket, pulled out the box he’d been carrying all day. He opened the lid and offered it to her. “If you don’t like it, I can have it redone,” he said, suddenly unaccountably nervous. It wasn’t a ring -- he’d save that for a public proposal, a spectacle for the press. This was a tennis bracelet, diamonds and rubies so dark they were nearly black in the dim light.

Her mouth made one of those little bows; delight, the way so many lovers had, but also, a wry tip to it. “It’s very lovely,” she said. “Just to my taste. As we have known each other for such a long time, of course you know my preferences.”

Tony snorted. “Yes, of course.” Idiot. Of course she wasn’t going to tell him she thought his gift was tacky or boring or tasteless. She knew the game he was playing, and what her role was. “Maybe you’ll help guide my selection of your ring,” he suggested. “It’s not traditional -- well, I don’t know what the tradition is in Russia, but not _here_. But I’d like it to be something you’re pleased to wear.”

“That would be an interesting outing,” she said. She held the bracelet up to the light for a few moments. “It really is charming. Thank you. I am -- we are -- very happy to be here. A safe haven.”

“I’m glad,” Tony said, and meant it. “I hope you’ll be happy here, both of you.” He touched her arm lightly. “I’ll let you get some rest. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said. “We will have to spend some time together, intensely, and get to know one another. There have already been questions. You are-- quite famous.”

“Yes.” Tony frowned. “Did you... not know that? I tried to explain...”

“I knew,” she said. “But I did not _understand_ until we met this woman, outside the airport. She has, how do you Americans say it? An axe to grind with you.”

“Christine,” Tony confirmed. “Yeah, sort of. One of the things we’ll do in the next couple of days is get you and your brother to sit down with my publicity team so they can give you a rundown on handling the press.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“I think that James handled her quite well,” Natalia said. “But now she will look at _James_. You will want to spend more time with him. So he is your friend, your close friend. To guard him?”

Tony nodded. “I’ll want to get to know both of you better. And we’ll do everything we can to keep him out of the hotseat, I promise.”

Natalia gave him a quick smile, offered him the bracelet and held out one slender wrist. “We are all on the same team, now.”

Tony carefully fastened the bracelet around her wrist. “Yes.” It looked perfect on her, drawing attention to her shapely arm and pale skin. “Get some rest, Natalia. We’ll make our plans tomorrow.”

* * *

Tony poured a cup of coffee without looking, eyes fixed on his tablet as he scrolled quickly through the morning’s headlines and the stock report. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and started triaging his inbox. Stuff to deal with immediately, stuff to forward to someone else, stuff to think about and then come back to, stuff to delete...

He really ought to write his own email program. Specifically so he could tag ten or twenty messages at a time and forward them all to Pepper. Or, more precisely, Pepper’s assistant, who would figure out which ones Pepper actually wanted to read.

There was a rattling sound and some cursing going on relatively close, and then James staggered out of the pantry holding a loaf of bread by the loose end of the bag, and a bin of -- sugar? Flour? White cooking stuff, Tony didn’t know -- tucked under one arm. 

He was wearing a robe, the front undone, displaying his abs and chest -- there was a hell of a bruise on his left side, too, covering most of the way from his hip to his armpit -- and a skimpy pair of red silk briefs. He had a box of raisins tucked under his chin and when he saw Tony sitting at the table, he squeaked with surprise and the raisins fell on the floor, spilling everywhere.

Tony blinked, startled.

He wasn’t used to people in his home, especially not this early in the morning. “Uh. Good morning?” he tried. Great, way to be a good host. “There’s coffee.” He lifted his own mug in demonstration.

“ _Dobroye utro,_ ” James said. “Do you not have any eggs? I looked all through your pantry, and no eggs.”

“Eggs,” Tony repeated, a little dumbly. “Um. If I have any, they’ll be in the fridge, not the pantry. I don’t cook a lot, but you make a list of what you want and we’ll make that happen.” He couldn’t quite seem to tear his eyes off James, the ripple of muscle under golden skin. And those briefs that were... very, very brief. And eye-catching.

Tony blinked again and dragged his gaze back to his tablet by main force. “Should I ask what the raisins are for? Please tell me not the eggs.”

“ _Grenki_ ,” James said, matter of factly. He put most of his supplies down on the counter and crouched to sweep the handful of raisins up and tossed them in the trash. “Um. Cooked bread and egg and sugar and milk, with raisins, or jam sometimes.” 

“Hm. Sounds sort of like French toast,” Tony said. “You like to cook?”

“I like to eat, and I live alone. Or, I did,” James said. “Why do you keep your eggs in the refrigerator? Are you afraid they’re going to hatch?” He dug around in the fridge and obtained milk and eggs.

“What? No. That’s... In the US, the way we process eggs makes them more likely to develop bacteria on the shell, or something like that. It’s a whole...” Tony waved a hand vaguely. “...thing.”

“Dumb thing,” James said. He performed any amount of ridiculously unnecessary stretching and squatting, looking for things like frying pans (apparently Tony owned several of them, who knew? He didn’t think they’d ever been used.) and mixing bowls. He raided the fridge again and came up with a pound of fresh mushrooms. (Was Pepper stocking his kitchen again? He was positive he had not bought any vegetables. Or fungi. Possibly ever.)

Tony gave up trying to concentrate on his tablet and sat back in his chair to watch James cooking. He could wish his soon-to-be brother-in-law would at least tie that robe shut, because _Jesus_ , but that didn’t seem like it was going to happen. Well, maybe when the actual cooking started. Spattered hot liquids were not pleasant.

“I would think, I should sleep,” James said, cutting up mushrooms and adding them to one frying pan with butter. “Eleven hours, on a plane, changing from one to another twice, running all the way across one airport and hoping our bags make it before we do. I should be _exhausted_.”

“It’ll catch up eventually,” Tony said. God knew, he’d done this, himself, traveling all over. He still hadn’t decided if a six-hour time difference was worse than a twelve-hour one, for getting through the jetlag. “But if you’re awake, you’re awake. Might as well find something to do, right?”

“That will be the challenge,” James said, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. He finished mixing and dipping and whatever, turned the stove on, and tied the robe shut, which did, in fact, cover up some skin, but also tightened the fabric around thick thighs and a rather shapely ass. “What to do with myself while you are romancing my sister.” He dug around in drawers for a while until he uncovered a spatula. “Nat says you are going to be having a baby, soon?”

“Well, _I’m_ not having it. My ex is. But it looks like it’s probably mine, yes. And since I wouldn’t trust Sunset Bain with the wellbeing of a spider plant, I’m hoping to get custody.”

“I do not know that I want to know the answer to this,” James said, flipping a piece of bread that was cooking in the pan, “but what is a spider plant? It sounds _terrible_.”

Tony laughed. “I know, dumb name, right? It’s just a regular plant, though. People mostly grow them in hanging baskets. They’re supposed to be damned near impossible to kill.”

“Like spiders,” James guessed. “Ug. I don’t want one.” He flipped two pieces of toast onto a plate, topped them with grilled mushrooms and a fried egg, and then slid two more pieces into the pan. “You want one? Grenki, I mean, not a _spider plant_.” He shuddered with exaggerated disgust.

“I don’t usually eat breakfast,” Tony said, “but sure, I’ll give it a try.”

Apparently grenki, which really did look like French toast, came in two varieties, sweet and savory, since the one with mushrooms and eggs was not coated in sugar, and the other was topped with some sort of cream and raisin… syrup.

James sat down opposite Tony and cut into his breakfast with the edge of his fork, waiting for Tony to sample before actually starting to eat.

Tony cut off a corner of his toast and ate it. Yeah, it was basically French toast, just with slightly different toppings. Pretty good, though. He’d never thought of having it as a savory dish. “Not bad,” he allowed. “Thanks.” He cut off another piece, and poked listlessly at his tablet.

James ate, looking up at Tony from time to time, then, as the silence stretched out a little, finally jabbed a yolk-coated fork in the direction of Tony’s tablet. “This is your work?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “It pretty much never stops.” Even as he spoke, another three emails arrived. Tony sighed and deleted one without even opening it, then skimmed the other two. “But I’ve been promised I’ll at least get my evenings free for the next couple of weeks, while you two are getting settled. Afternoons, too, if nothing urgent comes up.”

“Nat will not take up too much of your time,” James said. “You should talk to her about your work. She’s very good with computers, you know. She might be helpful.”

“Yeah? I’ll do that.” Tony reserved some judgment -- whenever anyone said someone was good with computers, it could mean anything from “They actually know how to print!” to “They teach seminars in ethical hacking.”

Not that Tony was pulling either of those examples from his own personal experience, or anything.

“But I don’t mind taking a little time to help you guys get your feet under you, here,” he added. “New place, not many people you know, weird and foreign customs... I know how it can be. I want to help out. Plus,” he added, “Natalia and I will need to be seen together, at least a few times, before we announce the engagement.”

“At least you do not have to ask Petrovich’s permission,” James commented. “He would say no, until you came back with an acceptable-- dowry is not the right word. Bribe, maybe?”

“That your dad?” Tony mopped up the last of the sauce with the bread and stuffed it in his mouth. That really was pretty good stuff.

“Foster father, yes,” James said. “Ivan Petrovich. He trained us up, so if Nat is lacking as a wife, you can blame him.”

Tony snorted. “Well, if I’m lacking as a husband, I probably haven’t got anyone to blame but myself. All I’ve got is a model of what _not_ to do.” He checked the time, sighed, and stood up, gulping down the rest of his coffee. “Time to get to work,” he said. “I should be back maybe... two or so? If you haven’t gone back to sleep and Natalia is up, maybe we’ll do something. Sightseeing or something. Whatever you want.”

“I think Natasha would like that,” James said. “She wants to see the green lady in the ocean. Welcoming the poor and weary masses. Like us.”

“Sure,” Tony said. He could probably arrange for a private ferry and an after-hours tour so they weren’t completely swamped with press and fans. “Some restrictions may apply. See your administration for details.” He shook his head at James’ expression. “Sorry, dumb joke.”

“No, I understand this,” James said. “Moscow is a _safe city_.” He gestured at the left side of his body, where that bruise was, barely peeking out of the collar of his robe. 

Tony winced in sympathy and nodded. “Something like that. Oh, hey, I’ve got some stuff to put on bruises that really helps cut down the soreness; I’ll try to remember to grab a tube for you if I get a chance to duck through the workshop today. That looks pretty painful.”

“It’s not so bad,” James said. “Better than-- well, when we decided we should go. That was bad. This is just a little colorful. No scars. Too bad. Those have good stories. This is just… stupid.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll bring that cream anyway, and you can tell me some of your good stories later. Deal?” Tony scooped up his tablet and checked his schedule to see where he was starting his day. “I’ll see you later.”

“This is deal,” James said, and Tony got the feeling that he was gazing after Tony as he left the room, steady and inscrutable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Grenki](https://littlesunnykitchen.com/grenki/)


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, this was nice. Right?

Quiet dinner, right in the heart of Manhattan where they would be _seen_ , but everyone would pretend to be far too cool to be starstruck by Tony’s appearance. Which would get the gossips talking about Natalia, without -- hopefully -- interrupting their dinner.

He had to admit, she looked the part. Immaculately dressed, perfectly made up, not a hair out of place. Straight-backed and poised and looking at him as if he’d fetched down the moon just for her. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was real.

“I was, I think,” she said, pushing her food around with her fork before taking one slow, sensual bite, “twelve. The first time we ate at a restaurant. James had just placed, welterweight, for boxing. Street, you know, underground. Betting. But still, an accomplishment. He was fourteen, then, maybe fifteen, I cannot remember, but tall for his age.” 

“I can only imagine,” Tony said. It was hard to imagine James being small enough to qualify as a welterweight. “So a celebratory meal out, then?” He reached for the wine bottle, tipped a little into Natalia’s glass, and then topped up his own.

“Yes,” she said, and took a sip of her wine. “This is not bad, I like it. Our father, you know, he had money, but we were only children. The fight, Ivan, he gets all the bets, but Bu-- James, I should say, he gets a cash prize, directly to him. We snuck out the window that night, and went to eat and celebrate. The food was _terrible_ , the place we went, filthy, but we felt like tzars.”

Tony chuckled, though the more he heard about Natalia and James’ father, the less he liked the man. It was just as well Ivan was deceased. “The crazy things kids do,” he said. “When I was twelve -- at boarding school, you know, my last year -- one of the guys in the dorm had gotten his hands on some weed, and another one had snuck in a few bottles of his father’s whiskey, so we decided to have a party. On the roof.” He paused for dramatic effect, taking a bite of his steak.

Natalia leaned forward. “Did you fall off the roof? Or try to parachute using an umbrella?”

“Nothing as mundane as that.” Tony grinned. “There were these metal and stone gargoyles perched on the building. I don’t know why, really. It wasn’t that style of building, and they weren’t actually serving a purpose. They were just... there. Someone had liked them and decided to put them up, I guess. Anyway, drunk and high, we decided... Well, when the dorm monitor got up the next morning, he found gargoyles perched in a semicircle around his door. Staring at him. Too close together for him to squeeze past -- and they were _heavy_ , a couple of hundred pounds each. Two of them had these wings--” He stretched out his arms to demonstrate. “-- too big to fit in the stairwell, or through any of the windows.”

“I am quite certain that he deserved it,” Natalia said, and laughed. “How did you get them inside? Or is that one of those ‘happens in Vegas’ stories?”

Tony leaned in conspiratorially, and when she’d matched him, her eyes shining with curiosity, he whispered, “None of us could remember!”

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” a familiar voice drawled, interrupting their laughter. “Fancy seeing you here. Didn’t this used to be our place? Isn’t it tacky to bring the new floozy to your special place?” Sunset was standing there -- much as it pained Tony to admit -- looking radiant in her pregnancy, the curve of her belly a neat bubble under her fancy, designer label maternity dress. Her skin was flawless, her hair thick and shiny, and her eyes narrow and sparkling with malice.

He glanced at Natalia, then pulled on his society manners like a protective coat. “Sunset, how charming to see you. Let me introduce you to my very good friend, Ms. Romanova.” He smiled at Natalia, thin-lipped. “Darling, this is Sunset. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her to you.”

“Delighted,” Natalia said, utterly flat, eyeing the woman with the suspicion of someone looking at a black spot on the floor and trying to decide if it was a spider, or just lint. And in either case, not something she wanted there.

“What brings you out into the city today?” he asked, only watching Sunset peripherally, not wanting to take his eye off her but not wanting to give her the satisfaction of his full attention, either.

“ _Cravings_ ,” Sunset said. “For this-- bundle of joy. I was thinking about that creme brulee. You should try it, dear, it’s quite good. I’m almost positive we had it _that night_ , Tony, do you recall?” She shifted, trying to give him her come-hither look, and it might have been successful -- there was nothing unsexy about a pregnant woman, honestly -- except that Tony knew who she really was, now, and not the coy sexpot act she tended to display.

“Did we?” Tony asked. “I honestly don’t remember all that much of that night.” He rather pointedly speared a bite of his dinner. “Well, it was lovely to see you. Enjoy that creme brulee.”

“I intend to,” Sunset said. But she didn’t wander off, either. Instead, she studied Natalia for a long moment, taking in everything from her hair to her heels. Sunset, Tony noticed, was not wearing heels, and her ankles were a little swollen. He might have had sympathy for that -- it couldn’t have been comfortable -- but she was still pointedly, maliciously, interrupting them. “Bear it in mind, Ms. Romanova… Tony isn’t really a keeper. No memory for the important things.”

“Tony seems quite reasonable to me,” Natalia said. “Quite a good memory for important details. And very kind to the deserving.”

Absently, as if noticing it for the time, Sunset turned the bottle of wine, reading the label. “Oh, a malbec, Tony? How cliche.” She snagged one of the empty water glasses and went to pour herself a glass.

Natalia’s hand moved so fast it was a blur, dropping her fork and placing her hand flat over the glass. “You _will not_ ,” she said.

Tony was impressed by Natalia’s speed, and more than somewhat intimidated by the spark of fury in her eyes. Oh, yeah, he’d chosen well.

Sunset was still gaping at Natalia when Tony gently took the bottle back out of her hand. “I think it’s best if you go back to your table now, Sunset. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

Sunset sniffed, but prudently decided not to make a complete scene. She stalked back to her table, which was, fortunately, nowhere that Tony could see. Probably Sunset knew he was there because someone had social-media’d him and tagged it. It was rare when he could actually go out in public and not get twittered or snap-chatted about. Whole part and parcel.

“What a horrible woman,” Natalia muttered when the sounds of Sunset’s footsteps had faded into the general hum and buzz of the dining room.

“She is,” Tony agreed. “You were perfect.” He lifted his glass in a little toast. “Thank you.”

“I have no objections, if she did not wish to have the baby, but she’s choosing to do so,” Natalia said. “And therefore, she will not poison it.” She didn’t quite throw a glare over her shoulder, but Tony got the sense that she wanted to.

“So...” Tony pushed his roasted vegetables around a little, trying to recover his footing, “what would you like to do tomorrow?”

“We should do something with James, perhaps,” Natalia said. When the waiter came by again to inquire about desserts, Natalia did _not_ order the brulee, selecting instead a lemon truffle cake. “He needs new clothing. I need new clothing, as well, but I bought some, before we left Moscow. If we are not to embarass you by being seen in public together.” 

“Clothes, yes, that’s a good idea,” Tony agreed. “Not that you don’t look perfectly beautiful as you are,” he added quickly. “But the society gossips will wring their hands if you’re not in something fresh. We can start with my tailor, for James, and while we’re there, he’ll give us some idea of who we should see to fit you. My mother’s favorite seamstress closed shop a few years ago.”

A few minutes later, the cake arrived. Natalia took a bite, savoured it, and then, with a truly evil smile that Tony thought he could come to adore, offered him a nibble off the end of her fork. He was just sampling it when Sunset stormed by on her way out.

Tony had to work hard to suppress his smile. “You knew she was watching.”

Natalia raised one eyebrow. “There is a mirror over the bar,” she said, by way of explanation. “It is a hard habit to break, watching the room.”

“And a useful one, as well,” Tony said. “I’m not going to lie; that was fantastic and sexy.”

“She intends to make as much trouble for you as she can manage,” Natalia said. “She may have to be taught many times, but she will learn, eventually. I protect my interests.”

“She’s always been a troublemaker,” Tony agreed. “I can see that choosing you was one of my better decisions.”

Natalia took another bite of her cake. “You did not choose me,” she said. “I chose you.”

Tony cocked his head. “Well, I suppose we chose each other.”

“I looked at your picture, and I think-- no one else will do,” she said. “We are the best possible choice, and it will make you very happy, I think.”

Well, that was flattering. If, he suspected, not entirely accurate. “I’m sure it will,” he agreed. “I hope you will be happy, too.”

“I,” she declared, “am _delighted_.”

* * *

“I don’t know why I have to come with you,” Bucky protested, speaking Russian, which he knew was rude, he knew it wasn’t fair to Tony to argue in a different language, but he’d already been made fun of, now, twice, for his accent. The coffee shop wasn’t technically _outside_ , and Bucky was mostly all right with staying inside the Stark Tower. But some teenagers had sniggered at him when he placed his order, and then again when he spotted someone taking their pet for a walk, and apparently his pronunciation of _cat_ sounded… wrong. “You know my size.”

Because Natasha had done most of his shopping anyway. Bucky’s biggest concerns were did it fit and was it red?

“Because American sizes are different from Russian sizes,” Natasha said reasonably. “Because Tony is taking us to a tailor who will need to measure us. And because we need to all be seen together.”

“ _You and Tony_ need to be seen together,” Bucky said. “I need to stay out of the way, or people will think you brought your boyfriend with you.”

“Nonsense,” Natasha said. “Better for you to be in the public eye from the beginning, so that we can answer the questions immediately, get it out of the way. You cannot stay out of the way forever.”

“Watch me,” Bucky muttered. Tony kept looking at them every time his name came into the conversation. He knew they were talking about him. “I don’t like the way people look at me.” He said that in English, giving Tony a sidelong glance. “Will it help if I am dressed like an American?”

“Perhaps it will,” Natasha returned. “But if you don’t like any of the other reasons, then you will come with us because I ask it, yes? You wouldn’t leave me alone amongst strangers for so long?”

“Yes, because you are so very helpless,” Bucky said. He sighed. “Very well. But I am not entirely comfortable with this. Spending all of your husband-to-be’s money before you even get married seems like very bad planning.”

Natasha laughed. “I am not sure I _could_ spend that much money in such a short time. Certainly not on mere _clothes_.” She turned toward Tony, switching back to English. “He has not been to a tailor before. It is unnerving.”

Bucky threw a dark look at his sister. “I am not a coward, Natasha.”

“It can be daunting,” Tony told Bucky earnestly, “but my guy is great, I promise. You’ll barely notice the measurements, and the clothes...” He kissed his fingers. “You’ll be stunning.”

“I will _not_ be stunning,” Bucky said, shaking his head. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to be stunning. His entire routine at home centered around _not being noticed_. 

“Sorry,” Tony said, eyes twinkling. “You’re already ninety percent there. Might as well embrace it.” He stood up, clapping his hands. “Come on, let’s go. No time like the present, hm?”

“There are many times that aren’t the present,” Bucky said, puzzled. He knew that look in his sister’s eyes, too. She was already plotting something. He wasn’t sure what, exactly. But something. 

Tony paused, glancing back. “It’s an idiom,” he explained. “Means, let’s go now.” He gestured grandly toward the elevator. “Shall we?”

Bucky found himself, entirely without meaning to, which probably meant Natasha was doing something subtle with her body language, next to Tony in the elevator, their hands all but brushing. The walls of the car were highly reflective, throwing them back at themselves in perfect detail. “I do not see why I will look stunning,” he said. “You are stunning enough for both of us, and my sister enough for an entire room.”

Natasha beamed at him in the mirrored surface, clearly pleased with the compliment. Tony brushed a hand down his front, removing invisible wrinkles. “I do all right,” he admitted. “Nothing makes a man look good more than a fat pocketbook.”

Bucky leaned back, not quite discreetly, and checked out Tony’s assets. “I do not think it is your fat pocketbook that makes you look like _that_.”

Tony glanced at him, eyebrow raised, and then laughed. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to make your sister jealous.”

“If there comes a day when I have something my sister wants,” Bucky said, leaning against the side of the elevator cab, not minding too much that he was leaving fingerprints behind. “Then she will just ask and I will give it to her. There’s nothing to be jealous _of_.”

“Share everything, do you? That’s nice.” The elevator stopped and Tony led the way out, giving Bucky another look at that perfect ass.

“Well, probably not you,” Bucky said, not quite sure how his mouth was getting away from him. It had to be that amazing backside, it was astonishing. Round and perfect and Bucky thought there might be nothing greater in the entire world than getting his hand on one cheek and giving a squeeze. He was tempted to see just how far his fingers would span. “When the churchman says ‘to have and to hold,’ that’s going to be Natasha.”

“That’s the plan,” Tony said lightly. Natasha was hanging back, pointedly watching Bucky watch Tony’s ass.

Tony, none the wiser, led the way to a car -- not the same car that had brought them to the tower, something smaller but still very large -- and utterly ignored Happy’s reach for the door handle, opening it himself with a flourish and a wave.

Natasha breezed past Bucky and Tony to slide into the car. “Tony, you must come next, to sit next to me,” she said. “All must see us together.”

Which meant Bucky was sitting on the outside, one leg pressed up against Tony’s thigh because the car was large, but Bucky was also somewhat large. He had recently acquired the bad habit of sprawling everywhere, just because he could.

And Tony turned halfway in the seat anyway, to point out the sights to Natasha, which meant after a few minutes, it wasn’t merely Tony’s thigh pressed up against Bucky’s hip, but that perfect, perky ass. 

On the other hand, if Bucky was looking at Tony’s backside, he was not looking at those full lips, or those doe brown eyes or the way his whole face crinkled up whenever he smiled. Bucky slumped down in his seat, trying to look out the window instead, but his gaze kept being drawn by the man. 

“Why do you ride everywhere?” Bucky wondered. “It seems it would be faster to walk.”

“It seems so,” Tony said, turning back to look at Bucky, “but it doesn’t usually work out that way. If I’m on foot, it takes about five minutes for the paparazzi to get wind of it and close in, and then I can’t take so much as a step without tripping over someone with a camera or a phone wanting a quote or a quip.”

“I suppose it is better than someone with a knife,” Bucky commented. There were a lot of people on the streets. It seemed inevitable that if someone were stabbed that someone else would _notice_ , but Bucky had been reading the papers, trying to improve his English, and the crime rate in the city was astronomical. They probably just didn’t report as much of the crime in Moscow.

“That, too,” Tony admitted, “though mostly at night. And of course, sometimes it’s not paps. Sometimes it’s just regular people who are fans. And they, lots of them, have stories they want to tell me about how we intersect, and it seems ungrateful to just... walk away from them, most of the time. Walking anywhere takes _forever_. Some days I can barely get across the street to the deli.”

“What, you are the tzar? I thought you were just the phone guy,” Bucky said. He knew better, of course, but it was absolutely worth it to watch Tony’s face crunch up in confusion, and then he burst out laughing.

Bucky would say a lot of ridiculous things to get Tony to laugh like that.

“So you _do_ have a sense of humor in there,” Tony said, grinning. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Natasha looked at Bucky from behind Tony’s head, her lips curving fondly. “James has a wonderful sense of humor,” she defended. “He is merely slow to warm, sometimes.”

“It’s harder to be funny, in English,” Bucky complained. “I’m very clever in Russian.”

“Ah,” Tony said. “Perhaps I will learn Russian, then.”

On the plus side, Bucky noticed that having a driver meant it was someone else’s job to find a place to park. Hogan pulled up in front of the shop and let them out, while people honked and waved and generally acted like idiots. “I am not convinced you are not the tzar.”

Tony waved genially back to the waving people, pausing occasionally to allow them to snap photos, before ushering them into the shop, his hand lightly on Natasha’s back, just above the dip of her spine. “I feel like if I were the tzar then I wouldn’t have to argue with nearly as many people. I would just tell them to do it my way, and they would have to shut up and do it, instead of wasting weeks or months and ruining the profit margin finding out that their way was stupid.”

“I don’t think it was that easy, even when we had tzars,” Bucky said. “But it makes for a nice dream.”

“It does,” Tony said, and was about to say something else when a wizened, tiny man emerged from behind a curtain. He looked like an apple that had been peeled and then left to brown and shrivel in the sun, his shoulders stooped with work and age, but his whole face lit up when he saw Tony.

Tony beamed back at the old man and flipped into accented but otherwise flawless French. “Jacques! I am in need of your magic, my friend. Only you can do my friends justice!” He waved at Bucky and Natasha.

Jacques turned his gaze on them, shrewd and measuring, and then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “My youngest granddaughter, Madeline, she will take the lady for measurements, and to choose fabrics and shapes. And I will see to the gentleman. Yes?”

“You speak French?” Bucky demanded, in French.

“We are in your capable hands,” Tony assured the old man before turning back to Bucky. “I speak French,” he agreed, still in French. “Also Italian and German. I understand Spanish better than I speak it. Likewise, Japanese. And I have a tourist’s handful of phrases in... oh, half a dozen others.”

That was, Bucky decided, entirely unfair. There was something beyond appealing in watching that luscious mouth shape French, which seemed to involve an awful lot of Tony licking his lips. Bucky was going to die, he was straight up going to die, and then he was going to discover that Ivan had been right all along, and he was in hell.

Or something.

“It’s fashionable,” Bucky said, as if he was excusing himself. “To speak French. Ivan’s grandmother insisted we learn. The old codger.”

“It is only a surprise,” Natasha put in, “because we are taught that Americans are lazy and arrogant, refusing to learn more than their milk tongue.”

“We’re absolutely arrogant,” Tony said with a sly smirk. “And lots of us fail to ever learn more than a few phrases in any other languages. We don’t actually _encounter_ many people here who don’t speak English, you see, so many fail to see the use in it.” He shrugged. “But Stark Industries is an international company, so...” He spread his hands.

“And you would rather not rely on translators,” Bucky suggested.

“That’s part of it,” Tony agreed. “Also, I find people are more generously inclined to someone who speaks their language, or at least makes the attempt.”

Bucky thought about offering to teach Tony Russian, but he was probably going to learn it just by being around them all the time. Polyglots tended to do that, with time and practice. Which meant he would have to be careful with what he said, since there would be no telling when Tony would start to pick it up. “Except for English, which I think is not a real language, but three other grammars in a trench coat.” 

Tony’s tailor was patiently waiting for Bucky to stop talking and start doing-- whatever it was that Tony was paying him to do. 

“Fine, then, yes, I stand here? I stand here.”

The tailor pulled out a tape measure from somewhere. “Yes, you stand there,” he said. “Stand straight, on both feet.” He started measuring things that Bucky would never have thought needed to be measured.

Partway into that, a woman emerged, her hair beginning to gray. She beelined for Natasha, clucking under her breath and whipping out her own tape. Natasha stood for her measurements with more grace than Bucky. The woman -- Bucky could only assume this was Madeline -- traded comments with her grandfather, and he was fairly sure they were still speaking French, but damned if he understood a single word of it. Designer names, maybe, or obscure styles or fabrics.

Tony looked entirely at ease, strolling around the little shop and examining the photographs and samples. He brought a thick book over to Natasha at one point and showed her some fabric swatches. Madeline took it away from him with a stern _tsk_ and flipped rapidly to another swatch, holding it up against Natasha’s neck and face with apparent satisfaction.

“Not bad,” Bucky said, glancing over and getting swatted by the old French gent for moving. “Like that dress you wore for the library job.”

“But this is softer,” Natasha returned, with a sly smile. “You should get dark blue. Like you wore when you were pretending to be a student.”

“I liked that job, that was a good job,” Bucky said. He risked getting jabbed again to flip through the colors book. “This color.”

Madeline hummed approvingly. “M’seiur has an excellent eye for color.”

Jacques glanced over and grunted, but Madeline winked at him, so probably he’d chosen okay.

“The only thing about leaving Russia,” Bucky said, “I think I will miss. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do while you’re busy being Mrs. Stark.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something for you to do,” Tony put in. He brought over another book and showed it to Jacques, pointing out what looked like buttons. “What do you enjoy?”

“I did fighting for a while,” Bucky said. “I was pretty good at it. You have that, don’t you, on your pay-per-view.”

“What, like boxing?” Tony asked, looking interested. “Gladiators? Mixed martial arts cage matches? What kind of fighting?”

“Most like the-- cage match,” Bucky said. “Some boxing. When I was smaller. I almost got a job as a bodyguard once.”

“Almost? What happened?”

“The mark needed a bodyguard more than he knew,” Bucky said, shrugging. “He got shot, the day after my interview.”

“Well. I suppose we should all be grateful that he wasn’t quicker to hire,” Tony said. “Otherwise you’d have had a very bad first day on the job, and we might be missing your presence now.”

“No one has shot me yet,” Bucky pointed out. “Lightly stabbed a few times, but not shot.” He gave Tony a wide grin that got even wider as Natasha rounded her eyes at him. _Shut up, idiot._ He knew what she was trying to say with her directed looks, but he was ignoring her anyway. “I am kidding. Natasha will tell you, I like to tell stories. Sometimes, in my stories, you might even think I was the hero.”

“He is not a hero,” Natasha put in, disdainfully. “He is barely a sidekick.”

Tony laughed. “Well, hopefully we can do better for you than that. Though I don’t know if I have any easy ins for a fighting ring. You couldn’t have a simpler hobby, like baking? Model trains?”

“Maybe I should go back to a school,” Bucky said. “You might have a little girl, yes? I can teach her ballet.”

“You could teach a boy ballet, too, you know. Don’t get stuck in some heteronorma-- You know ballet?”

“Natasha is better, but she doesn’t like to teach,” Bucky said. “I am… not too bad.”

“James is an excellent teacher,” Natasha allowed. “Very patient with small ones. But his form...” She waved a hand. “They must have a proper teacher within two years, if they wish to perform.”

“Bad habits,” Bucky said, which was true. “Fighting is an entirely different form, and close in, sometimes I forget, are we dancing, or are you going to punch me?”

Tony looked like he wasn’t sure if he actually believed any of it, but also like the whole thing was utterly delightful. “School, if you want school, there are a lot of schools here. Arts, academics, trades, you name it.”

It might be nice, to learn something just because he wanted to, and not because Ivan was sending them in for a job. To learn something and make use of a skill, more than just surface deep, for pretending to fit in. “I will think on this,” Bucky said. Finally, finally, the old tailor let him step off the little platform.

He wondered, as he looked over Natasha’s choices while she selected cut and fit and styles, if there was a school to help him forget that he didn’t fit in, that he was never normal, and that he’d been trained, from a very early age, to be a thief and a liar and a scoundrel.

He’d already had to sneak the cash back into Hogan’s car and left it on the floorboard. Stealing was a bad habit to get into; the last thing they needed was for Bucky’s light fingers to get them both thrown out of the country.

“What about fun?” Tony wondered as they flipped through heavy glossy books of men in extremely expensive-looking suits. “What do you want to do for fun? Clubbing? Sports? Theater, opera, Broadway?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said. “What is clubbing? American sports? I have heard much about baseball, but rarely seen it. We were not children anymore. Ivan did not think we needed much recreation. It does not put food on the table. Even after he was gone, we didn’t have… a lot of time.”

“Well, time is always at a premium,” Tony said philosophically. “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t wish for more hours in the day. But you certainly don’t ever have to worry about putting food on the table anymore. Give it some thought, what you might like to do for fun. We could make a baseball game happen, that’s a pretty low bar to set.” He turned his flashy, charming smile on Natasha. “What do you think, darling? Would you want to go to a baseball game? The great American pastime, so they say.”

“We would _love_ to,” Natasha said.


	5. Chapter 5

The stadium was huge -- and even in a crowd like this, with famous people as common on the ground as rocks, Tony was likely to cause a stir. Which was why he’d paid for a box for Stark Industries. Usually the tickets went to various deserving employees, or sometimes the Foundation group brought their big donors. 

Tony had only been there once, as a matter of fact, sports not really being his thing. But they had a private box with twenty seats, their own private bar and snack service, and the only thing that was really missing is that they were unlikely to catch any foul balls, given that the box had a roof on it and was glassed in.

It wasn’t just the three of them, of course. Part of the purpose of the outing was to introduce Natalia to society, of course, to get her accustomed to the very specific etiquette she’d be having to deal with -- not that she’d done poorly so far -- and to give the gossips something to work with.

Still, he wasn’t about to just throw her to the sharks immediately. Not without teaching her how to swim, first, at least. So for their first public group outing, he’d decided to ease into it. He’d avoided inviting the glitterati and stuck instead to people he actually _liked_. Reed Richards, with whom Tony’d had a (mostly) friendly rivalry for years; Reed’s wife, Sue, who was both charming _and_ gracious; and Sue’s brother, Johnny, who was _neither_ charming nor gracious but still, somehow, miraculously likeable. Their friend Ben, who Tony _still_ hadn’t figured out exactly what he was to the others, but it was impossible to invite the Richards and not include Grimm. He was a huge sports fanatic, though, so it worked out all right -- he’d undertaken to explain the intricacies of the game to Natalia and James. Tony had also brought along Bruce, who wasn’t technically high society at all, but somehow kept finding himself dragged along to these sorts of things, and Tony thought if anyone could make Natalia and James feel welcomed, it would be Bruce. As long as Bruce managed to avoid one of his rather famous temper outbursts.

James had allowed himself to be guided in the case of wardrobe by someone -- it certainly wasn’t Jacques, who probably wouldn’t be caught dead in a tee, much less recommending it to anyone -- but someone, at least, because he wore a very Americanized outfit, a tank top with a loose, open buttoned shirt over it, and jeans so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on. He acquired a pair of heavy boots somewhere and when he propped his feet up on the seats in front of him, Tony noticed that they had a little knight emblazoned on the sides. 

Natalia, on the other hand, had gone strictly according to the tailor, wearing a black sheath dress and very high heels, her hair styled in one of those casually messy but expensive do-ups, and she wore the bracelet Tony had given her. She had a tiny little bag that Tony couldn’t imagine held much of anything at all, and was really more like a carried accessory than an actual functional item.

Tony stuck close by her side for the first couple of innings, playing the part of the besotted lover. Not that the others didn’t know what was going on -- well, Reed might not; he wasn’t always the most socially aware, but Sue would fill him in later -- but the cameras watching the crowd could turn their way at any moment (and likely had already), and they needed to control the narrative.

Natalia was playing her part brilliantly, leaning into his side when he put his arm around her shoulders, laughing breathlessly at his dumb quips, looking at him so adoringly that he could nearly believe it, himself.

But halfway through the third inning, Sue made an impatient shooing motion at Tony. “Go away,” she said firmly. “We need to have some girl talk.”

“It’s all right, Tony,” Natalia said, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “I will enjoy chatting with your friend. You should go make sure James isn’t bored.”

James actually looked entirely absorbed in the game, but Tony gamely wandered over and dropped into the seat next to him. “Having fun?”

James turned his attention off the field. “I think it would be more sportsmanlike if the outfield team could also score runs. I see much potential for that.”

“How would that even work?” Tony wondered. “You have to start at the--” He squinted at James. “Are you trying to turn our lovely game into cricket?”

“I am only saying that a game that does not have much potential for the players to punch each other is not really very sportsmanlike,” James pointed out. “What is a _deep fried oreo_? Do I even want to know this?” He gestured to the jumbotron, which was advertising the snack bars in six feet of light up glory.

“Oreo,” Tony said. “It’s a cookie. Two chocolate cookies with stuff between them. Like icing, only not. They batter it and fry it. I’ve never had one, but I understand being fried makes the whole cookie warm and sort of... melty.”

“You have a great love of dunking things in oil in this country,” James said. “Do you want one? The little snack stand in here doesn’t have it, but we can go and get one.”

“My arteries are hard enough as it is,” Tony joked. “But if you want one, go for it. No one’s likely to recognize you, yet.”

“Pity,” James said. “It might be fun to be as famous as Tony Stark, the tzar of America.”

Tony laughed at the unexpected return of the joke. “You’ll be famous soon enough, I’m sure.”

“Ppft, no,” James said. “You are famous, and my sister will be famous. And I will just be myself. Come on, you have _four_ arteries, surely they are not all hard yet.” He swung to his feet and gave Tony a brilliant blue pair of pleading eyes.

Tony rolled his eyes but stood up. “All right, fine,” he sighed. He waved at Reed and Bruce, who were deep into a discussion about the randomness at play in the arc of the ball’s path. “We’re going out to mingle with the hoi polloi and obtain truly horrifying food. Want anything?”

“I want a beer,” Bruce said. “Not your fancy uptown craft brews. I want something that tastes like a bucket of hops took a piss in some water.”

“I hear a joke, once,” James said, “about why American beer is the same as having sex in a punt.”

Tony snorted, but bit. “Why?”

“They are both fucking close to water.”

Tony laughed again. For someone who hoarded his smiles like a dragon hoarded treasure, James had a way of making Tony laugh. “It’s not altogether wrong,” he admitted.

“Yeah, this coming from a man who lives in the country that invented nesting dolls,” Johnny piped up. “They are so full of themselves.”

Tony groaned and pressed a hand to his face. “That was terrible, Storm. Just for that, no hot dog for you.”

Johnny smirked. “I want mine with extra chili and hot peppers. If we’re going to introduce Boris and Natasha to American trash food, we should do it right.”

James grabbed Tony’s wrist and hauled them out of the little booth, probably so no one else could place a food order. “My name is not Boris,” he complained. “And it is the second time he has called me that.”

“It’s a dumb joke,” Tony explained. “From an old cartoon. A pair of Russian spies, Boris and Natasha. I’ll show you, when we get back, if you want. It’s pretty terrible, but you’ll probably find the awful accent funny.”

“It is only communist joke if _everybody_ gets it,” James said, his own accent a little thicker than normal.

Tony cackled. “In Soviet Russia, joke gets you,” he returned. “How many of those do you have?”

“Only one more,” James said. “Have you heard of the band 923 Megabytes?” 

Tony cocked his head and raised a eyebrow. “No...”

“They do not, as you would say, have gig yet,” James said, grinning at his own joke. “Do you like it? Is very funny.”

Tony sputtered out a chuckle. “Yeah, okay, that’s a good one. I’m taking that to the office with me. What did you do, research American jokes on the flight over?” He led the way toward the nearest concession stand, following the signs.

“I don’t sleep much,” James confessed. “I did it last night. I want to fit in here, I never fit in in Moscow.”

“You’ll be fine,” Tony assured him. “Why wouldn’t you fit in? You’re funny, good looking, smart.”

“Always something,” James said. “Too thin, too tall, too loud, not Russian enough. Too Russian. It is always something. I just. Don’t belong.”

“Well, you belong here,” Tony said decisively. “We’ll make sure of it.”

They got in line at the stand, and then Tony had to endure the endless bits of “I am in line in front of Tony Stark” nonsense. At least, while he was sure to blow up social media again, anyone who wasn’t already at the game couldn’t _just happen_ to show up. Trying to get tickets from scalpers was not usually worth the social credit of being able to take a selfie with him in the background. #notcasual #nofilter.

A tourist recognized him and asked for a selfie -- locals pretended not to care about celebrity sightings, but tourists had no shame -- and he obliged, and then had to do a dozen or so more, throwing his arms around shoulders and grinning wide for the cell phone cameras. At least this lot were nice -- got their pictures and said a couple of nice things and then went back to their baseball game.

James had nearly reached the front of the line by the time Tony rejoined him. “It’s hard work, being the tzar,” he said.

“You need a big strong bodyguard to keep the rabble away,” James said. 

“You applying for the position?” Tony grinned.

James pulled himself upright; it was astonishing how much the man seemed to slouch, and his steely grey eyes went flat and dangerous. He directed that stare at someone who was edging closer to take a picture without asking -- rude! -- and they squeaked and scurried off, picture untaken. 

“Very nice,” Tony applauded. “You’re hired. Is it okay if I pay you in fried Oreos?”

“For today,” James said, relaxing out of his Terminator pose. “If I have to do more than protect you from the wild photographer, I will charge extra.”

“Hazard pay,” Tony agreed. “That’s fair.” He waved at the cashier to add a half-dozen hot dogs to their order. “One with chili and hot peppers, two classic mustard, and two with the works.” He grinned at Bucky. “What do you want on yours?”

“Kraut and cheese,” James said. “Also, a dozen and a half of these fried oreos I have been seeing. Everyone should have one. Or two. With some left over. For me.”

Tony chuckled, added Bruce’s terrible beer to the order, and handed over his credit card. “You may kill yourself on terrible American food,” he warned James, amused.

“There are many ways to die,” James said. “I will add it to my list.”

“How very Russian of you. You’re not allowed to die before the wedding.”

“No, of course not,” James said. “It would upset my sister. This, I do not want to do. She will drag me back from hell itself to make her displeasure known.”

“Smart man,” Tony agreed. “Though she doesn’t really seem that fearsome.”

“As you Americans say,” James said. “I will remind you that you have said this thing.”

He made short work of stacking their orders in such a way that even sloppy stadium food was easy to carry and Tony managed to get all the way back to their box without so much as getting mustard on his sleeve or spilling an unreasonable amount of Bruce’s beer.

He handed out the hot dogs and watched, amused, as James pressed fried Oreos on everyone, as well. He pulled out his phone and pretended to dial. “I’m just going to have an ambulance on standby for us outside the gate.”

“You worry too much,” James said. “Learn to relax. You will need it, when your child is four or five, all the extra calories, just to keep up.”

“Possibly,” Tony agreed. “Or maybe I’ll just send them to visit Uncle James, instead.”

“Ah, I see,” James said. “You bring me over so that you have permanent child care, whenever you need it. Is good.”

Tony blinked, surprised. “It... it is?”

“Yes,” James said. “It is what maiden aunts and bachelor uncles are for, after all.” He offered Natalia one of the oreos, which she waved away. “Eat it.”

“I’m not going to eat something that will get powdered sugar all over my new dress,” Natalia insisted right back.

“Oh, that is easy to fix,” James said, holding up one of the already empty containers -- well, empty aside from the generous dusting of the inside with powdered sugar.

Natalia stared at him, not quite scowling, but indisputably displeased. “Don’t you dare.”

“Did you just… dare me to do something?” James tipped his head, that smirk that looked hellishly delightful on Natalia’s mouth seemed to also have a match in her brother. “I think you did.”

“James,” she said warningly, backing up a few steps. “You would _not_.”

James laughed, and pursued her -- if walking in a semi-threatening manner could be considered pursuit, until Natalia retreated all the way on the other side of Tony.

Tony knew his cue when he’d been handed it on a silver platter. He spread his arms to block James’ path to Natalia. “Come on, do you really want to be in _that_ much trouble?” he asked reasonably, trying to suppress his laughter.

“I have been in more trouble for less reasons,” James said, philosophically.

“Hey, Boris,” Johnny said, suddenly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “You’re on the kiss-cam.”

“My name is not-- what is a kiss cam?”

Tony looked around. Sure enough, there they were on the Jumbotron, surrounded by blinking hearts and flashing exhortations to kiss. He pointed. “Kiss cam,” he repeated. He twisted to look at Natalia, quirking his eyebrows in subtle question.

“Oh,” James said, drawing in a sudden breath and taking a few steps backward, to get out of the camera. 

Natalia lifted her chin in silent consent, and took a step closer to Tony.

He leaned in and brushed a kiss across her lips. Not perfunctory, but hardly making out, either. He hadn’t really thought about what it would be like to kiss Natalia. He’d known he would have to, to keep up the pretense. He’d even hoped, somewhat vaguely, that they might learn to be friends, to like each other enough to keep their public shows of affection from ringing falsely.

But he hadn’t really _thought_ about it. He brought up a hand to cup her cheek, and irrelevantly wondered if James’ lips were this soft and plush.

_What the hell?_

He pulled back, making sure to keep his eyes on Natalia’s face until he was sure the kiss cam had moved on to a new target.

“We will need more practice,” Natalia said, as she reached over with a napkin to rub her lipstick off his mouth. “You are a little stiff.”

“Caught by surprise,” Tony said, which was an excuse, and a bad one at that. He’d kissed people before, less beautiful than Natalia, on flimsier pretexts. “Yes, maybe some practice is a good idea.”

When Tony returned to his seat, he found James reabsorbed in the game, and barely responsive to any more conversation gambits, only glancing at Tony from the corner of his eye. Well, maybe it was the kissing of his sister; that did strange things to men’s minds. Men with sisters, of course.

It wasn’t as if James hadn’t known what the plan was all along -- but maybe it was only now sinking in.

Tony decided it was best if he gave James some space; he took his fried Oreo and went to talk to Bruce about his latest project.


	6. Chapter 6

It was not easy to avoid the tzar when you lived in Moscow, Bucky thought. He did his best, though, pretty much as soon as he realized what was going on.

That being, that his stupid brain and his ridiculous libido had latched on to one of the few men Bucky felt safe and at ease around. Even his few lovers had been tentative, desperate occasions. In Moscow, you weren’t stupid enough to move in with a lover, to trust an entire family’s worth of strangers, to be seen going in and out of the same house. You could, if you weren’t eager to live all that long.

Not knowing if the guy hitting on you and making eyes was really into you, or just trying to bait you outside so a half dozen of his friends could beat the shit out of you.

It was enough to make a man very, very wary.

Tony had a way, though, of making Bucky feel safe. That he could, in fact, trust the man. Let down his guard.

Right up until Tony kissed Natasha, and Bucky realized the dark churning in his gut wasn’t some sort of brotherly instinct.

It was _jealousy._

So, at least until he got over this crazy feeling, this, as the Americans would say “crush”, it seemed to him that it might be safer to stay out of sight.

Which meant Bucky went for a lot of walks. Sightseeing, he told his sister, who clearly did not believe him, but she didn’t bother to call him out on it, either.

Which further meant he hadn’t actually seen Tony, or Natasha, for more than a few minutes here and there for almost a week after the baseball game.

Which in turn meant that when he threw himself down in the chair and flipped on the television in the living room, he was utterly and completely unprepared for seeing The Dish showing a recap of Tony Stark’s life.

Because he’d just proposed to his girlfriend, Natalia Romanoff.

Bucky dropped his drink and didn’t notice as the fizzy stuff flooded his lap.

On the screen, there was a clip showing Tony going to one knee -- because of course he’d made sure there were cameras present. His back was to the camera as if specifically to taunt Bucky with that amazing ass. In the center of the view, Natasha’s eyes went wide and her hand fluttered at her throat. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d swear she was both caught off guard and enormously excited and happy.

The image flipped to a still of them hugging, with a picture superimposed over it of Natsaha’s hand, now sporting a very impressive rock.

“This is what you wanted, idiot,” Bucky said. He sighed, went to grab his drink and realized it was soaking through his jeans and into the sofa. “Fuck.” 

He got up, putting the half empty can aside. No one was in the living room, although he didn’t know-- well, they’d probably gone out to dinner, it didn’t matter. Bucky shucked his pants and the tee. He’d managed to get both of them thoroughly drenched, and stalked off toward the laundry chute.

Which, _of course_ , was when the door opened and Natasha and Tony walked in.

Natasha, predictably, rolled her eyes at him.

Tony stopped, right on the threshold of the door, staring, color rising just above his fussy little goatee. Just as Bucky was beginning to wonder if he’d been entirely shut down, he lurched into motion, coming the rest of the way into the penthouse and letting the door swing silently shut behind him. “Making yourself at home, I see,” he quipped.

“What is yours is also now my sister’s,” Bucky said, because if this hell was his life, he was going to go ahead and walk backward into it, flipping off God. “And what is my sister’s is usually also mine. You were on the television--” He pointed backward, and while they were distracted, he continued off toward the chute, then his room, continuing to talk the whole time without looking back. “--you are still _on_ the television, for that matter.”

“So I see,” Tony’s voice followed him. “I admit, they got it on the air faster than I expected.”

“Will you not congratulate us?” Natasha wondered, following Bucky into his room, her lips curved into a too-knowing smirk.

“When I have clothes on, I might consider it,” Bucky said, grabbing a pair of jeans and stuffing his legs into them. “Possibly. I did not know it was to be this soon.”

“If you had not been doing so much ‘sightseeing’ these last days, you would have participated in the planning,” she said. She leaned in the doorway, arms folded over her chest.

“Then I am glad that it was a surprise,” Bucky said, because fuck, he couldn’t imagine doing that. _Planning_ a surprise engagement. So that his sister could marry the guy that--

_I am_ not _falling in love with him_ , Bucky told himself firmly. That wasn’t happening, it was never happening, best to stop thinking about that almost immediately.

“It was all very lovely,” Natasha continued heartlessly. “We are already scheduled for several interviews on talk shows. I have an appointment in the morning with the seamstress.”

“Papa Ivan would be very proud of you,” Bucky said, “which would give you all the complicated joy at having achieved such at last, along with all the self-loathing for still wanting it, and the desperate need to take a shower that him being involved would incur.”

She scowled at him, and glanced quickly over her shoulder, checking on Tony, before coming several steps closer. “I am not doing this for _Ivan_ ,” she hissed quietly. “If you will recall. This is for _us_ , for a better life for us.”

“I know,” Bucky said, stepping back before she slaughtered him with a nail file. “I know, Tash, I-- I am stupid and angry and that is not your fault.”

“It is not,” she agreed, but the anger melted from her gaze, leaving it warm and concerned. “But why are you stupid and angry? I am your sister; I will help you. You know this.”

“I don’t know why I’m stupid,” Bucky admitted. “It’s probably genetic. We’ll never know. And I’m angry because I’m stupid. There’s nothing for you to do, Tash, I just need time to deal with my own raging stupidity.” 

She came closer and took his head in her hands, pulling him down so she could kiss his forehead. “Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps you should simply stop being stupid and come out with us tonight.”

“Do you like him?” Bucky wondered. He wasn’t sure what would be worse; Natasha marrying a man she didn’t care for _for Bucky_ , or marrying the man that Bucky cared for and loving him anyway. More stupid. Better not to think about it.

“Do you know, I think I do,” she said gently. “He is not at all what we were taught to expect of Americans. He is intelligent and amusing and very kind. We are becoming friends, I think.” She cocked her head a little, her eyes too-knowing. “You could, too.”

“I’m sure I will,” Bucky said, gamely. He wasn’t as good at Natasha at lying, especially when it was something that actually mattered to him. Make up a story that he was a second grade teacher to infiltrate the life of one particular kid so that he could arrange a parent-teacher meeting, sure, he could do that. Pretend that he wasn’t pining after Natasha’s soon-to-be-husband, a little less successful. 

And Natasha probably even knew, damn it, which made pretending pointless. He was going to do it anyway. “Are we going somewhere nice to celebrate your engagement where I can wear my fancy new expensive suit? And will there be vodka?” Lots and lots of vodka.

“Yes, and yes,” she replied. “Or at least more American whiskey.”

“All right, give me ten minutes to hop in the shower and I’ll come with you.”

She kissed his cheek. “Thank you. And don’t look so glum. We are going to be very happy, you will see.”

That, Bucky thought as he closed the bathroom door behind him, _absolutely_ was the problem.

* * *

Maybe it was that they were actually engaged now that had brought James around. Had he thought Tony was just toying with Natalia? That he had brought them here and planned to back out on the deal?

Whatever; James seemed to have ended his week of isolation and avoidance and had joined them for dinner.

James had been a beautiful man from the first instant Tony saw him, but he was utterly _stunning_ in the suit Jacques had sent around. It somehow made his shoulders look more broad and his waist narrower, and the pants hugged his thighs in a way that made Tony want to lick them.

He forced his gaze away from James and back to Natalia. He was supposed to be a man in love, he reminded himself. Natalia should be the one drawing his eye at every turn.

But he couldn’t deny that he’d _missed_ James, this past week. That perfect deadpan humor, the light of mischief in those pretty pale eyes, the sometimes surprising depth of insight in more serious conversation.

Fuck. How complicated was it going to make things if Tony was developing a crush on his fiancée’s brother? Even granting that he and Natalia weren’t actually lovers, it was bound to make things awkward if he didn’t keep it locked down.

“This,” James said, gesturing, “is the fourth time I have changed clothes today, so something better not happen, or I will think the world has something against me wearing pants.”

“It does seem like a crime against nature,” Tony said lightly, pretending he was only joking, “to cover up such magnificence.”

“So--” James loftily ignored Tony’s comment, which was probably smart. “This morning, I am walking around in this Center Park? The big green space. And there are these ladies doing ridiculous stretches to terrible music. Yoga, I’m told. It does not look like any yoga I ever saw, and I give them this much, their ugly clothes do not tear as they fail, repeatedly, to do a split. My jeans, unfortunately, did not have the same structural integrity.”

“Tony,” Natalia said, looking at him with the wide, innocent eyes that Tony was slowly learning meant she was being particularly evil. “We must buy James some yoga pants. So he can pursue his new passion.”

Tony tried, very hard, not to imagine James in skin-tight yoga pants and maybe a sleeveless shirt, in some intricate, bendy yoga pose. “All the pants he wants,” he agreed, somewhat hoarsely.

“That is only the beginning,” James went on. “I finish the class -- might as well, right? My pants are already ruined -- and I go back to the penthouse to change. And I go out again; I have been meeting a few men in the park to play chess. They have a running bet going, who I am going to beat today. It is exciting, many old men, yelling for my chess games like we are playing basketball, or something. Very funny. One day, I may lose, just to see what happens, yes?”

“You play chess? Why didn’t I know that?” Tony would have gladly played chess with James. “I should have guessed that,” he amended. “Chess is practically Russia’s national sport. But go on -- the old men.”

“So one of them, Al, he brings with him, every day, this little tiny dog. It is not even really a dog, it is a naked ball of shivers, with a tail. And he carries it with him, in a bag, like it is a lady’s pocketbook. Al has had several dogs over his life, each one is the son or daughter of the dog he has before. So of course, this dog isn’t _neutered_. And we are halfway through our game, when his dog struggles out of the purse and runs for the dog-park. Al cannot run after his own dog, he is seventy five years old. I will go, I say, and get his dog.”

Natalia looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “This grows more intriguing.”

James gestured with his whiskey glass, indicating something about the size of a rat.. “Of course, this tiny little dog, not fixed, remember? Has found a lady dog who is, you might say, looking to get in a family way.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “I find out later, this female dog? The breed is called Great Dane.”

Tony burst out laughing. “That must have been quite a sight.”

“It is like a lone horseman trying to take on a tank,” James said. “You know what will happen, but you have to admire the poor creature’s spirit. The lady dog was not particularly eager to give up her suitor, and knocked me over when I picked him up, which got mud all over a second pair of pants.” 

“And then you spilled soda on the third change,” Tony summarized. “It has definitely not been a good day for your pants.” He really couldn’t help but remember the sight that had greeted him when he and Natalia had come back to the penthouse, Bucky’s thick thighs and muscular chest all on display, like some sort of test sent to torment Tony personally.

“I turn on the television, and there my sister is, beaming over a rock the size of a rubel,” James said. “Yes, I spilled, I was startled.”

Natalia held out her hand to display the ring. “It’s very lovely. I was _so_ surprised!” That, Tony suspected, was for the benefit of the surrounding tables, for the ones who might have been listening in.

“I’m glad it was a good surprise,” he said, playing along, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly. “But we’ll do our best,” he added to James, “to make sure your current pants remain intact.”

“Pity,” James said, giving Tony a hot, direct look that probably came directly out of the enormous amount of whiskey that both James and his sister seemed capable of consuming. “I was hoping for one more crazy adventure.”

Tony’s own pants seemed to feel a little overly snug, at that look, and maybe it was that, or maybe it was his own less-than-moderate whiskey consumption, but he smirked right back. “Oh, if you want an adventure, I think we can do that. Pants optional.”

James’ eyebrow went up. “Do I even want to know what you’re talking about?”

“Clubbing!” Tony said, pointing at him. “Dancing! Do you dance?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It would be fun!”

James looked at his sister, spreading his hands. “Do I _dance_? Do _I_ dance, he asks.”

“How would he know?” Natalia asked reasonably. “It is not a topic that has come up between us.” She smoothly emptied her glass, yet again. “You should go and do this,” she decided. “Without me. I am too tired. It has been a very exciting day for me already.”

James finished his whiskey and all but slammed the glass down on the table. “We will do this, then. And then, I will carry your fiancé home, drunk and in disgrace.”

“Oh, like that’s never happened before,” Tony scoffed, though part of him thrilled at the idea. _Down boy_ , he told himself. _You just got_ engaged _._

“Then it will be like old times,” James said.


	7. Chapter 7

“Come,” Bucky insisted as soon as they got back to the penthouse, grabbing his sister by her wrist, practically hard enough to leave a bruise. “You will help me pick out an outfit.”

He dragged Natasha back into his room, lowered his voice, and spoke in Russian in an excess of caution. “What are you _doing_?”

She blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence that he didn’t believe for a second. “Helping you pick out your clothing, just like you asked.” She pulled her wrist free from his hand and opened the closet door to consider the options.

“You are _matchmaking_ ,” Bucky corrected, “which is ridiculous, because you just got engaged _this afternoon_.”

Natasha pulled out a shirt and held it up, considering. “Of course I am not,” she said, and it almost sounded sincere. “You asked me not to. Can I be blamed for wanting the two most important men in my life to be friends?”

“Friends?” Bucky threw himself down on his bed and covered his eyes with his arm. 

“Yes,” Natasha said firmly. “You know what a friend is, don’t you?” Faint thumps on the side of the bed and the whisper of cloth as she tossed garments there for him.

Bucky leaned up on his elbows. “Honest? I am not sure I do. You are the closest thing I’ve ever had to one, and--” Bucky snapped his mouth shut around the _I don’t want to fuck_ you. “I don’t know how to do this.”

She sat beside him, brushed the hair from his face gently. “It is not so hard. This is not a con.” She paused, considered. “Not against Tony, anyway,” she amended. “You can be friends. Let him take you out. Enjoy the dancing. If you don’t like the place he takes you, tell him you want something different. There’s no reason to do anything you don’t enjoy. No failure, no disappointed speeches from Ivan.”

“I could recite those in my sleep,” Bucky said. “Even four years gone, I wake up, thinking I hear him in the hall.”

“I know,” Natasha agreed, solemn. “Me, too. But he is not here. Go have _fun_ , James. You are owed that, I think.”

“Fun,” Bucky said. He sorted through the clothes that Natasha had selected for him. “This shirt is see-through.” He wasn’t sure that was on purpose. It probably was. _Friends_ , Bucky thought. _Right_.

But maybe she was right about the fun part. He wasn’t going to meet anyone he might want to be romantically involved with at the park. Possibly. Fun.

Natasha smiled, a brief flash of dimples. “There are many kinds of fun,” she informed him. She kissed his cheek quickly, then stood. “I’ll go so you can change. I want to hear all about it in the morning.”

Bucky carefully hung up the suit and pulled on the so-called clubbing clothes. He checked out the effect in the mirror and found himself blushing. He looked like he was getting ready to put himself up on an AnastasiaDate site himself and try to catch a rich American.

Oh well, it would be dark in whatever club Tony took them to. No one would notice.

“Right,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair. “I’m as ready as I’m getting.”

Tony had changed as well, and his clothes were even more outrageous than Bucky’s -- silvery pants that clung to his legs and hips and left absolutely _nothing_ to the imagination, and a cropped shirt that showed more of Tony’s midriff than it covered, the material -- what there was of it -- studded with silver stars and neon stripes.

“I ought to be too old for clubbing,” Tony said, smirking, “but one of the advantages of being rich is that you don’t have to care about other people’s opinions.”

“Right,” Bucky drawled. “You’re just decrepit, I can tell. You are old; _I_ am the tzar.”

“Glad we got that established,” Tony said cheerfully. He looked Bucky over, top to toe and then back up, appraising, and Bucky tried not to show the way it sent heat skittering over his skin. “Good choices,” Tony said, and gestured for Bucky to follow him back out of the penthouse.

In the garage, Happy was waiting with a car, the engine already running and the doors open. “Where to, boss?”

“The Flagpole, I think,” Tony said, folding himself into the back seat. “All the other places are too flashy. Not really for _dancing_ ,” he explained to Bucky. “A lot of the clubs, they’re just for _being seen_. If you want to actually dance, you have to go somewhere a little less... conventional.”

“I do not know what the conventions are,” Bucky complained. “You will tell me what I expect.”

“Mm. Very loud, mostly dark with a couple of spotlights and some strobes. Starting to get busy by now, so it will be pretty crowded. Don’t order the vodka at the bar; you’ll just be disappointed. At the Flagpole, you can dance by yourself, or you can slide up to someone who looks good and see if they’ll dance with you.” Tony shrugged. “Or in a group, if you like. That’s probably better for showing off. If you’re as good as you say you are, pretty much any cluster will be glad to take you in.”

Bucky nodded, as if any of this made sense to him. “You lead, I will follow,” he said, which had the added advantage of him being able to stare at Tony’s rear without Tony, at least, noticing.

“You bet,” Tony agreed. “Peel off on your own when you’re ready to take off the training wheels. Just let me know so I don’t turn around and find you gone.”

When Happy pulled over to let them out, they were in front of a building that Bucky could hear from the street, a heavy thumping rhythm. The front was brightly decorated in glowing neon in a rainbow of colors.

There was no line to get in, but there was a doorman, who Tony greeted by name, exchanging a needlessly complicated handshake. “He’s with me,” Tony said, when the doorman’s eyes slid toward Bucky curiously. “It’s good.”

The doorman grunted and stepped back, clearing the entrance. Tony clapped the man on the shoulder and pushed through the door.

The music was rhythmic with a subtle backdrop of random beats; just enough, Bucky suspected, so that anyone dancing would be in sync, regardless. It was also so loud that Bucky wasn’t sure he would be able to let Tony know if he peeled off the training wheels, whatever that meant.

The place smelled of fruit and liquor, perfume and body wash, sweat and sex.

The floor was covered in glitter, and what Bucky was almost positive were condoms. He wasn’t sure if someone had dropped them, or thrown them. Didn’t matter, he supposed. 

The lights inside were both bright and completely unilluminating, and under them, everyone was young and beautiful.

Tony’s outrageous outfit wasn’t even the most colorful Bucky could see. In fact, it looked almost tame, under the colors from the flashing lights.

Tony led the way to the bar, wedging himself between two groups to lean on the polished surface until one of the bartenders noticed him and headed over. Bucky had no idea how they were going to be able to hear Tony’s order.

The dance floor was writhing in time with the music, some more on-beat than others. Some more vertical than others. There were big groups that were not so much dancing as just jumping in place, waving their arms around indiscriminately, with no sense of style. There were a couple of knots of people gathered around what looked like some sort of real dancing, the dancers taking turns showing off their moves. Couples were scattered throughout, of course, clinging tightly, the dancing serving as a sort of foreplay, more advanced for some than others. One couple near the edge of the floor was practically climbing each other, mouths locked and hips grinding. Bucky couldn’t help but be impressed at their breath-holding abilities. When they finally broke apart, the man--

No. They were _both_ men. The taller caught the other’s hand, twining their fingers, and pulled, leading his... his _partner_ back into the shadows on the far side of the dance floor, out of Bucky’s line of sight.

Bucky stared after them. He’d always heard the expression, _mouth dropped open in shock,_ without realizing that it was an actual thing that could happen. But in that particular instant, he was beyond shocked, uncomfortably aroused, and desperately terrified all at the same time. He found himself scanning the crowd, looking for the _politsiya_ wondering if he’d have the courage to intervene.

There was no politsiya. There were only other dancers, none of whom gave the couple so much as a second glance. The other dancers, many, _many_ of whom were men, dancing with other men. Openly, unashamed and unabashed. Uninhibited. _Unafraid_.

Bucky forced his mouth closed, so fast his teeth snapped together, and he looked around for Tony, wondering if Tony had seen this, if Tony--

He wasn’t sure if Tony was going to hear him or not, but he couldn’t not say it. “The men. Together. That is _allowed_? No one stops it, puts them in prison? Beats them in the streets?”

Tony blinked, glanced past Bucky at the dance floor, and then nodded and smiled, not without a hint of rueful sympathy. “You know gays can get married here, right? There are still bigots and assholes, but...” He shrugged and handed Bucky a wide-mouthed glass filled with some concoction that smelled of fruit and alcohol. “It’s okay.”

Bucky had drunk bathtub vodka; whatever this was, it would be better. 

He didn’t even hesitate, throwing most of the drink down his throat in a single swallow.

Tony’s eyebrows went up. “Should have led with the whole _gay bar_ thing, huh?”

“Da,” Bucky said. “Yes.”

“Sorry about that.” Tony took a healthy drink from his own fruity concoction. “I really was just trying to think of the best place for dancing. I wasn’t trying to... If you’re uncomfortable, we can go somewhere else.”

A whole _bar--_ there were hundreds of people in the building. “No,” Bucky said, and he drained the rest of his drink, looking over the bar with an entirely different set of eyes. “No, you did _exactly_ right.”

It was almost like pulling on a warm and comfortable sweater, too big for him, enough that the sleeves were bunched up on his forearms.

_Safety._

“Come, we will dance now,” he said, like he was giving orders and expected them to be followed. He stalked more than walked over to one of the larger circles, noting that there was probably enough space inside it. He nudged his way in, about halfway across from the man who was returning to his place, since they seemed to be going in turn for their displays.

There were eyes on him, as the newcomer. But they weren’t hostile or mistrusting. They were curious. Eager. _Hungry_ , some of them, as they looked Bucky over.

Tony joined him, not pushing forward into the center of the circle, but remaining on its outskirts. A spectator, but he clapped Bucky twice on the shoulder and Bucky thought he heard “Go on, tiger.”

He watched; each dancer seemed to have a signature move that they’d practiced, smooth and electric, in time with the beat. They were cheered or jeered, depending on their skill. Bucky joined in, easily, letting his hips move in time with the beat, clapping or hooting as it seemed appropriate. Noticing skill versus enthusiasm and grace.

_Your form is terrible._

Finally, the circle came round to Bucky, and the music was just right, heavy beat with jarring guitars behind it. He couldn’t understand the words, but it didn’t matter. He was pretty sure that no one else there could, either.

The hopak, sometimes called the Cossak dance, was traditional, and at the very base, a simple enough dance that most children could learn it. As long as you had good knees and a lot of breath control.

Bucky was not an expert, but the dance was showy. He stood in the center of the circle for a moment, letting the music speak to him, then dropped low and started to _move_.

He kept his balance, starting the low kicks, moving easily around the interior of the circle, forcing the others to widen the line, and when he made his way back to the center, started a series of high, split-jumps, practically touching his toes with each leap.

The other dancers were impressed. They clapped and cheered. Tony’s eyes were wide, his mouth curved in a laughing grin, and he was clapping, too.

Another dancer stepped forward. His body language said _challenge_ , but his expression was bright and joyful. Happy. He dropped into a squat and managed a couple of not-entirely-terrible kicks of his own, then stood up again, pointed at Bucky, and did... something. That made his entire body seem to flow like water, ebb and flow, ducking into Bucky’s space and then pulling away, daring Bucky to follow.

Bucky scowled a moment, watching, trying to figure what he was doing that seemed as if his entire skeleton was made of jello instead of bone. And then he got it, tipping himself into the move, meeting his challenger. Mimicked the move, and then, with a flourish, executed a dance he’d seen in a youtube video; the running man. Gestured back to his partner.

The man repeated it easily; obviously he had also seen the youtube video. He flowed from that into a dance that was all feet, a complicated shuffle of jumps and hops and position switches that ended with a solid, broad base. He grinned at Bucky again and held up his hands. _Let’s see you copy that._

Bucky twisted his mouth up, then rolled his hand. _Do it again._ And he watched, very carefully, each move and skip, each crossover. He was pretty sure he could do it, given time and practice, but not tonight. He made a game attempt at it, then ceded the other man the winner. “I will buy you drink, now, yes?”

“Yeah,” the man agreed, grinning as he shook Bucky’s hand. Someone else had already stepped into the circle to take their place. “Come on, you can tell me where you been hidin’ up to now.” He slung an arm around Bucky’s shoulders as they made their way back out of the crowd.

Bucky more felt the words in the air, read them in the shape of the man’s mouth, than actually heard them. Bucky leaned into that warm, friendly touch, and then looked around for Tony. He didn’t see him immediately, but the room was thick with people. Surely, if Tony lost him, he would come looking at the bar.

“Vodka,” Bucky said, slapping the bar when the bartender came by. “For me, and my new American friend-- what is your name?”

“Clint,” the man said. “What do I call you?”

“James,” Bucky said. He was tempted, for the very first time, to share _Bucky_ with someone who wasn’t family, but it seemed very forward. Especially when Clint was an American, and it wouldn’t be special to him. A friend, he thought. He could make a friend.

Clint picked up the shotglass the bartender had set in front of him, raised it to Bucky in a silent toast, and knocked it back with practiced ease, then waved at the bartender for another.

_Ergh_. “Tony was right, this is terrible vodka,” Bucky said, grimacing. “What else do we drink, small glass?”

Clint’s eyes lit up. “Oh man, so many things. You and me, we’re gonna have a _good_ time.” He leaned over the bar, incidentally showing off a shapely backside and impressively-toned abs as his shirt rucked up, and snared the bartender’s sleeve. “Shots!”

The bartender looked amused, but nodded and got out a small tray and filled it with shot glasses.

Clint grinned at Bucky as the bartender worked, putting something different in each little glass, that light of challenge in his eyes again. “Hope you can hold your liquor, Jamie.”

_Jamie_. That was nice. “I am Russian,” Bucky declared. “In mother Russia, liquor _hold you_.”

Clint laughed. It was a nice laugh. “I like you.” He picked up the first of the many shot glasses and held it up, waiting for Bucky to mirror the movement. “Nostrovia!” he announced, and tossed it down his throat.

Bucky slammed his own shot home, sour and sugary, like an alcoholic lemon. He put the glass back on the tray, upside down. _Dead soldier._ “Another!”

Clint reached for the next glass in the line. “Another!” He held it up and raised his eyebrows at Bucky, waiting for... something.

“ _Chtoby stoly lomalis' ot izobiliya, a krovati ot lyubvi_ ,” Bucky announced, then translated, “Break the table from drink, and the bed from love.”

Clint threw his head back, laughing. “I,” he announced, “will drink to that!” And he did.

This one was sticky sweet, like a butterscotch disk, a topping of whipped cream that smeared over Bucky chin when he swept his tongue into the little glass to get the last droplets. He wiped his chin self-consciously, and noticed the way Clint’s eyes were watching that movement with… interest. Heat. Something. Bucky wasn’t used to seeing that look directed at him without also a healthy dose of fear.

“This one next,” Clint said, nudging one out of line toward Bucky. It was as fiery a red as Tony’s favorite car. Clint picked his own up with a knowing smirk. “Kampai!”

Bucky smelled cinnamon just before the drink hit his mouth like a nuclear missile. He swallowed it, but then coughed. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said, “what is that, spicy gasoline?”

Clint was cackling, hand slapping the top of the bar. “Your face!” He managed to pull himself together. “Okay, okay, that was an asshole move,” he admitted. “You pick next.”

The next glass came with a lime soaking in it, and Bucky knew that from movies; tequila. “May we have no regrets.” Not his favorite alcohol; who drank pickled cactus, anyway? But the lime cut the taste nicely, and he tipped his glass upside down. He swayed, just a little, found himself leaning against Clint’s side. “You have… very intense eyes.”

Clint chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He turned his own glass over and leaned back into Bucky, so they were propping each other up. “You wanna get out of here?”

_Do I?_ Bucky wondered. He was pretty sure he was being propositioned, a situation that, in Moscow, he would have viewed extremely dubiously. You did not just _go_ with someone. Legal, Bucky reminded himself. Assholes and bigots was what Tony said, not murderers and fanatics. He was studying Clint’s expression, turning things over in his brain long enough that it must have looked like rejection, because the smile dropped off Clint’s mouth.

Americans smile, all the time, for no reason, Bucky thought, suddenly. But it did make them remarkably easy to read. “And where shall we go?” Bucky asked, lightly, picking up the last shot glass from the tray.

Clint’s mouth curved again, hopefully. “I’ve got a place,” he said. “Not too far. Coupl’a blocks.” He picked up his last glass and held it up. “No regrets!”

_No regrets_ , Bucky thought, and swallowed his drink. “Yes, let us _get out of here_.”


	8. Chapter 8

Tony watched James leaving the Flagpole, swaying a little, arm thrown around a man who was swaying rather a lot.

“So much for those training wheels,” Tony muttered into his glass, and threw back the rest of... Whatever it was he was drinking.

He wasn’t hurt. He had no _reason_ to be hurt. He’d brought James here already about 90% certain that James was gay. He’d _wanted_ James to be able to explore that part of himself. Freely, the way Tony knew had been impossible in Russia.

So Tony was glad for him. He was. Maybe a _little_ miffed that James hadn’t remembered to let Tony know he was leaving with someone else -- that was nothing but common sense and safety -- but the way the men were staggering and bumping into each other as they muscled their way through the door said plainly enough why James had forgotten.

Well. That was that, then. Mission accomplished. Tony tried to finish off his drink and was somewhat startled to realize it was already empty. He settled his bill and made his own way out of the club. It had lost some of its energy and sparkle, and Tony was tired.

It had been a long day. What with getting engaged, and all.

Tony found Happy standing around the valet stand, swapping dumb jokes and shit-talking sports. He straightened up briskly when Tony came closer, though. “Hey, boss! You callin’ it a night already?” He looked over Tony’s shoulder. “Where’s James?”

“Riding alternate transportation,” Tony said shortly. “Get the car, would you?” He wasn’t usually so snappish with Happy. He must be more tired than he thought. He massaged his throbbing temples as he waited for the car to come around, and slid into the back with a mumbled apology that Happy brushed off.

He was going to go home, fall into bed, and sleep for about fourteen hours.

Yeah. That sounded like heaven.

James had Happy’s number in his phone, when he was done playing. He was a big boy who could take care of himself just fine. Tony didn’t need to worry about it. 

Tony was going to get some water and some aspirin, and then go straight to bed.

They were just pulling into the garage under Stark Tower when Tony pulled out his phone. Huh, he hadn’t heard his text alarm go off; not surprising over the thud of music and the noise of crowds, but he hadn’t noticed his butt buzzing, either. 

He thumbed open the text, from an unknown number, and it was garbage, several of those little squares that meant someone was trying to send an emoji that Tony didn’t currently have.

Ug. He flagged the number -- if he got two more junk texts from the same one, he’d block it. He probably wouldn’t; spammers mostly used spoofers to generate fake numbers anyway, so they weren’t worth the effort of blocking.

The penthouse was dark when he got back; Natasha having apparently been exhausted and gone off to bed. His phone buzzed; at least away from the club, he could feel the vibrations.

_Hff ur bcky all goot_

“That’s two strikes,” Tony told the phone. “I’m not Becky, or whoever you’re trying to text.” He got his glass of water, swallowed the aspirin, and flopped onto the sofa to give his head a minute to stop spinning.

He really needed to get a more comfortable sofa if he was going to lay on it for any length of time. He hadn’t picked this one out, either. He was pretty sure that woman with the questionable shoe choices had selected it, to go with the room. Maybe he needed to be more specific with his requirements next time.

He idly started composing an email in his head to the decorating company, entailing what he required from a sofa. It couldn’t be too hard to find. Well, he supposed he could build one if it came down to it. How hard was it to design and build furniture, anyway?

Somewhere in between mental email rewrites and extensive obsession with blueprint designs for a couch, Tony thought he might have fallen asleep.

In fact, he was pretty sure he had, because the windows were showing the sky beginning to pale, tinting from pure night-black to a soft purple. Still dark, but less so, and the purple was beginning to think about other colors in the east, like blue and orange.

He’d have woken up if James had come home. There was no way to get into the Russians’ suite without going right through the living room. Which meant that James was having a _very_ good time, probably.

Or a very _bad_ one.

Tony shook his head. Pre-dawn was the worst for morbid thoughts. James was fine. He’d gotten laid and was sleeping over. No big deal.

Probably.

And Tony wasn’t jealous of that, either.

There were no more texts, either, not from James, or from whoever was looking for Becky. 

His head ached, but he was going to put that down to sofa sleeping, rather than overindulgence. He hadn’t really had all that much to drink. Well, thinking about design specs were a way to pass the time, he supposed. It didn’t take long to pull up his laptop and start up a CAD program. He’d never designed furniture before, it would be an interesting challenge.

It wasn’t long before he had a dozen tabs and windows open, references for materials and design -- Tony would redesign from the ground up if he had to, but he didn’t like reinventing the wheel, especially if it had already been discovered that square wheels made for a really bumpy ride.

He didn’t turn on any music, because he was _aware_ that it was still early, thankyouverymuch, but he might have been humming a little under his breath as he compared the five different shapes and sizes of armrest he’d come up with so far, trying to decide which would transition the most seamlessly from an upright support to a comfortable cushion. 

The faintest beep from the penthouse security system gave him only a few seconds warning before the door pushed open and James crept in. He stopped dead, looking at Tony. “Did you _wait up_?”

Tony considered it. “A little bit. Doing some work, multitasking, you know how it is.” He focused firmly on his laptop screen. “Have a good evening?” There, that didn’t sound creepy and possessive.

“I revise my earlier statement,” James said, slowly. “One regret. Also, you were right about the vodka. It was terrible.” He all but collapsed into one of Tony’s chairs.

Tony nodded. “You think _my_ vodka is bad,” he pointed out. “Pretty much anything else you find over here is going to be worse.” He poked at his keyboard a bit, trying not to watch James from under his eyelashes. Mentally rehearsed and revised a few times before he landed on, “Try to remember to text me or something next time. Always good to have someone know where you’re going.”

“I did text you,” James said, letting his head tip back until all Tony could see of him was his throat. “Or, I try. Did you know if your fingers swell, the phone will not recognize your print? Clint texted you, instead, when I told him your number. Didn’t you get it?”

Tony shook his head. “I got some random junk and someone looking for someone named Becky, which, I don’t think I’ve even _known_ a Becky since college.”

James laughed. “Not Becky,” he said. “ _Bucky_. I must have been very drunk.”

Tony stopped typing and looked up. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

“Uh, he’s me,” James said. “It is a-- short name? Small name? _Nickname_ , that’s the word. You didn’t answer, so I had Clint send a text to Natasha, to tell you. I guess you haven’t seen her.” James sat up in the chair, looking faintly chagrined. 

“No. Like a sane person, she is still sleeping.” Bucky? What the hell kind of name was _Bucky?_ Even as a nickname. Maybe it sounded better in Russian. Tony considered it. No, probably not. He fished out his phone and scrolled to the not-quite-blocked-yet number. “This is your... friend?”

James glanced at the screen. “Ah, this text. We tried voice to texting, but the phone doesn’t understand drunken Russian. Sorry. I will finish setting up my phone with the code number, so I can try that, next time.”

“Right.” Robbed of the excuse to be mildly annoyed at Bucky for not trying to get in touch with him, he now felt outright petulant. Which was a ridiculous way for a grown man to feel, so Tony shoved it down deep into a box. “So I guess you had a good time with this Clint guy, huh?”

James nodded, grinning. “Did you know--” he waved his hand in front of his mouth a moment, then moved it to his chin and pulled it away. “This means ‘you snore, and I have a hangover’?”

Tony blinked. “He... taught you sign language?”

“A few things,” James said. “He’s not completely deaf, and he reads lips pretty well, although he complained about my accent.” He made another few motions, then winked. “I’m not going to tell you what that means.”

Tony wondered if he even _wanted_ to know. He thought about the two of them, cuddling and laughing as James tried to learn and-- Yeah, no, he didn’t need to know. “Well. Glad to know your first foray into the world of clubbing was successful.” He saved his files and smacked the lid of the laptop down. “I should probably get some sleep.”

“It was interesting,” James said. “He threw darts at me, and we played with his dog, and then he fell asleep. His dog has one eye and three legs. But very friendly.”

Tony paused, still only half-standing. “Threw darts at you. That’s... I haven’t heard it called that before. That’s a new one.”

“Huh? No, darts. Is that the wrong word? Little metal, sharp point, plastic feathers? _Darts_?” James held up his arm, poking his finger all the way through a hole in his sleeve.

Tony blinked at it. “He. He _actually_ threw darts. At you.” He straightened and scrubbed a hand through his hair, down his face. “He was drunker than you, when you two left. I saw.”

“The Amazing Hawkeye,” James said. “He is a circus performer. Acrobat and has a set where he throws knives and swords and arrows at his partner. Like that story about the man who shot apples off his son’s head.”

“William Tell,” Tony said, half on autopilot, trying to process this. “He’s-- I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. I thought you were going to...” He waved. “You know. Get laid.”

James just shrugged. “We had fun,” he agreed. “I don’t think he would have objected, but-- it didn’t go that way.”

Tony waved a hand aimlessly. “None of my business, I know,” he said. “Shouldn’t pry. I was just...” He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Worried? Jealous? He pushed away a wave of relief that James _hadn’t_ slept with the guy, after all. “I should go to bed before I shove my foot any further into my mouth.”

“Now I am confused,” James admitted, “but yes, you should sleep. I did not mean to keep you awake.”

“Sleep,” Tony agreed, practically hugging the laptop to his chest like some sort of armor as he backed away. “I’m going to do that. Now.”

He nearly collided with Natalia, just emerging from her room. “Shit! Sorry.”

She inclined her head. “Did you two have fun last night?”

“Fun,” Tony agreed. “So much. Bed now.” He backed another few steps, then managed to turn around and head for his room, hearing the soft cadence of Natalia’s Russian over the sudden pounding in his skull.

“Tony--” James didn’t quite _pursue_ him down the hall, but he did lean into the corridor from the living room, all but blocking his sister out. “Tony, wait-- I--” but once he had Tony’s attention, he didn’t seem to know what to say. After a long silence, he blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

Tony stared at him, blinking and confused. “For what?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” James admitted, looking a little frustrated. “Whatever it was--”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Tony said, forcing a bit of a smile. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Glad you had a good time. I’m just...” He rubbed at his forehead. “Got a headache. Late-breaking hangover or something. I’m going to go lie down.”

“ _Horoshey_ ,” James said. “Dream well.”

“Thanks.” Tony finally made his escape, stumbling away and closing the door on Natalia’s voice, questioning. He leaned against it for a moment, willing the pulse of pain behind his eyes to subside.

Shit. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

“I am going,” Nastasha said, glaring back into the penthouse. “With or without him.”

“This is not my fault,” Bucky protested, even though he already knew it was a hopeless case. Tony had been lackluster the entire previous day, which could be chalked up to a hangover. Or not. But he had not come out this morning at all, and when Natasha knocked on his door to remind him about their catering planning session, he’d made a few negative noises and not bothered to get up.

“What did you say to him?” Natasha demanded. “He is obviously very upset.”

“I didn’t--” Bucky threw his hands up. “I did exactly what you told me to do. I went out, I had fun, I made a friend.” He didn’t add that he was trying, with increasing urgency, to not respond to Tony’s nearness, or his sometimes flirty lines. Surely he was just being _friendly_. 

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him like she was trying to see through his soul, to dig down and root out whatever terrible wrong he must have committed. She opened her mouth to say something, but the sound of a door opening made them both turn to see--

Tony. But not the suave, devil-may-care public figure that he usually presented when he and Natasha were going out together. Nor even the endearingly shabby picture he presented sometimes when it was only the three of them, in soft, loose clothes and his hair disheveled. No. This Tony was hunch-shouldered and had a thick blanket clutched around his shoulders. His hair was flattened on one side, his skin pale and his eyes sunken. “I don’t think,” he started, and his voice came out like the croak of a raven, and then a hand emerged from the folds of the blanket with a tissue just in time for him to sneeze violently into it, twice, three times. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere for a few days,” he managed. “Sorry.”

Bucky watched, almost amused, as Natasha recoiled. There were lots of things that Natasha was good at, many things that she liked doing, and a few hobbies that she maintained. But one thing she absolutely did not deal with well at all was illness. She hated being sick, she hated being around sick people. 

When Natasha was ill, she was, in fact, the most horrible person to be around. 

“Go,” Bucky told her. “Take care of the catering. There will always be time for Tony to make changes if he needs to. I will attend--” He waved a hand at Tony.

“What?” Tony croaked. “I don’t need any help. I just came out for the aspirin and a bottle of juice.” He managed a wan smile and shuffled past them, heading for the kitchen. Natasha backpedaled hastily, eyes wide. When Tony brushed past, Bucky could actually feel the heat baking off him.

Bucky made a quick shooing gesture at his sister. “Get the wipes while you are out,” he suggested. For the next few days, while Tony was a germ factory, Natasha would wipe down everything he touched, trying to keep it from spreading. It would be funny, Bucky thought, if she wasn’t so serious about it.

He didn’t wait to see if she listened to him; Bucky followed Tony into the kitchen.

Tony had the refrigerator door open and was staring dumbly into it, as if the item he wanted would march to the front and throw itself into his hand. He didn’t move for several long seconds, and then belatedly seemed to realize that Bucky was there. “Sorry, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute,” Tony rasped. “I just need. Uh.” He let go of the fridge door and pressed his fingers against his eyes.

“Liquids,” Bucky said. “Aspirin. Are you coughing? How’s your chest feel?” He very gently put his hand on Tony’s shoulder and moved him to one side. Orange juice was all right; a sports drink would be better, something with electrolytes. Ah, there. They were all nasty, so he just picked one from the group, cracked the lid. 

Tony blinked at it for a moment, then took it and lifted the bottle to his lips. He drank half of it in a series of desperate swallows, and swayed alarmingly when he brought it back down. “Thanks. You don’t have to... you know. Take care of me or anything. I’ll just den up until it passes. Must’ve picked up a bug at the club.”

“I know,” Bucky said. Briskly, he touched Tony’s forehead with the back of his hand, all business. “You are feverish and should not be up. Come, I will bring you everything you need, you should get off your feet.”

“I can manage,” Tony protested, but he let Bucky turn him back toward the bedroom, shuffling along with that comically large blanket gathered around him. “Just need some aspirin. Maybe some chicken soup. Gold’s Deli delivers.”

“Of course you can manage,” Bucky said. “You have lived alone for quite some time. But I am here, and I would like to help. If you would allow it.” He gathered up a glass, the rest of the sports drink, a straw, and the aspirin, still managing to catch up with Tony before he got to the bedroom. “Being tended while you are ill helps you get better faster. Or at least be less miserable.”

“Not what you signed up for,” Tony mumbled. He didn’t climb back into his bed so much as topple onto it. He curled up into little ball under the huge blanket. “Phone.” His hand emerged, groping toward the nightstand where his phone was charging.

“Here, let me,” Bucky said, unhooking it and handing it to him, before Tony yanked everything on his table onto the floor.

“Thanks.” The hand disappeared back into the cocoon of the blanket. Tony made a soft, slightly pained noise, and then said, “Pepper. I need you to--” He broke off for a fit of coughing. “I know I sound like shit,” he resumed, raspier than before. “That’s why I’m calling. Yeah. I don’t know. Couple of days, anyway. No, I don’t think it’s bronchitis yet. Yes, I will. Okay. Thanks.” A few seconds later, the phone ejected itself from the blanket and landed with a soft thump on the bed.

Bucky neatly tucked it away, back on the table. He stuck a straw in the sports drink and shook out three aspirins into his hand. “You can take these,” he asked, offering them to Tony. “And I will find a thermometer.”

Tony grunted and grumbled but emerged from the blanket enough to take the aspirin from Bucky and throw them into his mouth, washing them down with a couple of swallows of the drink before flopping back down. “Don’ need a thermometer,” he said. “Already know I have a fever.”

“Humor me,” Bucky said. “Besides, if your fever is too high, you will be seeing a doctor.”

Tony sighed. “You and Pepper,” he complained. “Fine, whatever. Don’t know if I even have one.”

“Then I will stab you with a meat thermometer like you are an undercooked steak,” Bucky teased. He dug through Tony’s medicine cabinet in the bathroom, looked in the towel closet, and finally found one tucked inside the first aid kit. “Ah! And I am successful.” Wiped it off with an alcohol pad, because he could almost see the dust on the bulb. “Under your tongue, and don’t talk for a few minutes.”

“I know how a thermometer works,” Tony grumbled, but then he closed his mouth around it and subsided, eyes drifting closed as he waited.

“Yes, well, I know how your mouth works,” Bucky said, and when Tony opened his eyes to glare, Bucky just smirked. He’d meant that Tony talked quite a lot, but the way Tony was giving him the stink eye, Bucky rather thought he was inferring something else entirely. Finally, Bucky plucked the thermometer out of his mouth and peered at it. “One hundred and two,” he read. “What is that in units that make sense?" He squinted at the thermometer and found a button that switched it from Fahrenheit to Celsius. "Thirty-nine. Not comfortable, but aspirin should bring it down. We will check again in an hour.”

In the meanwhile, he urged Tony into slightly less of a ball of misery on the bed, getting him under the sheets and propped up on the pillows. Used the flashlight from his phone to peer into Tony’s mouth-- no white spots inside his throat, that was good, but it did look a little red and raw in there. 

Bucky wet down a washcloth with cool water, and blotted Tony’s forehead. “There, feel a little better now?”

Tony hummed softly, eyes closed. “Why’re you being so nice?”

“Because that is what I do,” Bucky said. He found a good sized, mostly comfortable chair, in Tony’s closet of all places, and dragged it over. “Would you rather sleep, or just rest your eyes and I will read to you?”

Tony opened one eye to look at Bucky with something like confusion. “...Read to me?” he finally said, tentatively, as if waiting to be told he had chosen wrong.

“Of course,” Bucky said. He opened his phone app, flipped through the book he’d recently finished, all the way back to the beginning. “ _Storm Front_ , by Jim Butcher. I heard the mailman approach my office door, half an hour earlier than usual. He didn’t sound right. His footsteps fell more heavily, jauntily, and he whistled. A new guy. He whistled his way to my office door, then fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed. Then he knocked. I winced. My mail comes through the mail slot unless it’s registered…”

Tony’s eyes stayed closed, but he listened attentively for a chapter or two, smiling and frowning in reaction, pausing occasionally to cough or sneeze. Halfway through the third chapter, Bucky glanced up to see that Tony had gone limp, relaxed in sleep.

Bucky checked his cheeks and forehead for fever and found it somewhat reduced. Got up to refill Tony’s drink, check on supplies, made a small grocery order. Broth, toast, more sports drink. Cough syrup and throat drops. Tissues. 

“You are lucky,” he told the sleeping Tony. “If it was just Natasha, she would leave you entirely alone. Very good with stab wounds, my sister. Not so much with germs. But me, I am hearty stock, and I do not get ill.”

He paused in the doorway and looked back. Tony appeared very frail and beautiful in his messy, ill way. Like one of those terrible romance novels where the heroine had to nearly die of consumption before they’d get their happy ending. (And then sometimes she died anyway. Bucky read a lot of Russian romances.)

“I will come check on you,” he said, not sure if Tony would hear him.

While he was waiting for the grocery delivery, he pulled out his phone, poked it a few times. Then drew up his very short contact list and found Clint Barton.

_Do you give good advise for stupid people?_

Clint: _Im gr8 @ giving advice on how 2 b stupid_

Bucky grinned. Clint had struck him as the sort of person to leap first and say “well, this looks bad” after. He wasn’t going to take Clint’s stupid advice, whatever it was, but he did want to pretend, for just a little while, that it was a real thing, that the situation was something he could change. _I may be falling in love with my sister’s fiance. On a scale of 1 - 10, how screwed am I?_

Clint: _Like 11. Sister will murdr if she finds out. Fiance even n2 guys?_

_Death by annoyed sister. I think it’s a life goal,_ Bucky texted back. _I don’t know. I don’t know how to ask. In Russia, it is death sentence by hitting on the wrong guy. Literally. I have stab wounds._

He hesitated for a long moment, then added. _He took me to the club where I met you. He is friends with the doorman._

Clint: _80% chance hes into guys then. Ur p. screwed. Unless sister will share?_

Bucky chewed his lip. _She is a pretty good sister. Our fosterfather always told me I was going to hell, but she was his perfect angel._

Clint: _Snds like almost as much a dick as my dad. Easy solution: intro me & sis, I sweep her off her feet, you’re clear to bang fiance._

Bucky almost laughed. _You are brave man_. _I am tempted._ He flipped through the pictures on his phone for a few minutes. _This is Nat._

Clint: _[hearteyes emoji] i m already in love._

_I will set something up. You can meet us in the park or something. Walk dog. Your dog is nice. Few days. Tony is sick right now._

Clint: _Dude is sick n your still all [heart emoji]? Ur totally screwed._

Bucky raised his head to look at the half-open door to Tony’s bedroom. _Yes. Yes, totally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Untranslated ASL: [1](https://www.handspeak.com/word/search/index.php?id=2829) | [2](https://www.handspeak.com/word/search/index.php?id=4686)


	9. Chapter 9

Pepper gave Tony a wide, sincere smile when he walked into the office. “You look more cared for than I would have expected,” she said. “Having a fiancée must be good for you.”

“Natalia’s a germophobe, actually,” Tony told her. “But James makes an excellent nurse.”

“Ah,” Pepper said, in that smugly superior way of hers. “I suppose that makes sense, then. I tried to keep your schedule light today. You have a meeting with three of the potential Stark interns. Pick one, try not to set the other two up for gladiatorial combat in the basement or anything ridiculous. Robot combat trials are not, however, out of the question. And you have one meeting with--” She shuffled through paperwork and put down a folder on his desk. “--Giulietta Longfellow, to discuss possible investments with her new power source, the orichalcum drive.”

Tony frowned, trying to remember the details on that. “Send me her white paper, would you? Being sick seems to have knocked most of it out of my head, and I’d like to at least pretend I know what I’m talking about. While you’re at it, if you’d be so kind, reserve me a robotics lab so I can put the interns through their paces.”

“Anything else, Mr. Stark?” Pepper asked, pert, because that’s how she was.

“That will be all, Ms. Potts,” he responded, because that’s how he was. He pulled the folders toward him with the interns’ applications.

The white papers arrived on his tablet within moments, and a bit after that, the reserved lab popped up as clear.

There were other things; there were always other things. Tony made his way slowly through his inbox, already curated by Pepper’s assistant, and then by Pepper, so that only the most important things actually made their way in front of Tony’s eyes.

It was still a lot.

He was in the middle of drilling down to the root cause of an internal outage with some ridiculously long down times when the door opened and Ms. Longfellow walked in, Pepper just behind her. “Tony, your eleven o’clock is here,” she said, frowning at the way Longfellow ignored her entirely. 

“Mr. Stark,” Longfellow purred. “So nice to meet you at last. One of the bold leaders in robotics technology.”

Tony stood up and extended a hand across the desk. “Ms. Longfellow, thanks for coming. Please, have a seat.” He nodded at Pepper. “Thank you, Ms. Potts.”

“I have a new prototype,” she said, without much in the way of fanfare. “Powerful, compact, and long lasting.” She took something out of her bag about the size of a fancy pill box. “The orichalcum drive. Although _battery_ might be a better word for it, doesn’t sound as spectacular, does it?”

The prototype, which she showed him, was no bigger than a grape seed.

“Impressive,” Tony said. “I presume you’re looking for industrial rather than commercial applications.” He could already see dozens of uses for the little thing, depending on its capabilities. “I presume you brought along a spec sheet for me, as well. Are they rechargeable, or single-use?”

“We are looking into the means of recharging, but right now, it is more-- cost of obtaining the raw materials that has us stymied and where we are seeking aid from investors. The core is made from compounds excreted by deep-sea aquatics. You can find more about them--” She pushed a folder across the table. “We’ve been able to set up a small harvesting site, but deep sea workers and compounds are expensive. Given that conundrum, industrial applications are better. Return on investment. The battery life is more than two years, but no single consumer is going to want a phone they never have to recharge, if it means spending ten thousand dollars.”

Tony nodded his understanding. “But a power source this small and long-lasting could revolutionize certain industries. Space travel, industrial megacomputers, automotives...” Weapons, too, but Tony was out of that game. “You have my attention. What exactly are you looking for from us?”

"Investment into our collection facility," she said, leaning over a little. "You're a global company with offices everywhere in the world. Help us cut through government interference. And, of course, branding. I don't care who has their name on the outside of the box. And SI can reach millions of customers. We've already done most of the hard work. We just need a big player to help us across the finish line."

She was appealing to his ego instead of his intellect. Tony wondered if that was ingrained habit, for a female entrepreneur dealing with male CEOs, or if she’d failed to do her homework on him. That seemed like a mistake. “I’m certainly interested,” he said carefully. “Of course, you know I can’t agree to anything without putting your device through some tests, maybe tour your facilities. I’d love to see some of your operations. What made you look to deep sea biology for the answer to a power problem?”

She laughed, light and pleased. "Truth? It was an accident. I was dating a trawler captain at the time and we picked up a fish that no one knew what it was. I took it to a friend who specializes in marine biology and the chemical composition was just… odd. So we kept investigating. You've seen the old battery and dead chicken snake oil trick right?"

Tony chuckled. “Well, some of the best discoveries are accidental,” he allowed. “So before I get my legal team spun up about NDAs and investigative testing, tell me what kind of deal you’re thinking about.”

"I have a few preliminary partnership suggestions," she said. "We'd love to have you tour our facility. Would you like to discuss the details over dinner, perhaps? The time change, you know, I'm starving. We've been off the coast of Africa for almost three months now."

“Certainly,” Tony agreed. Business dinners were nothing out of the ordinary, though he’d have to make sure to warn Natalia that he was having dinner with another woman, strictly for business purposes, lest some reporter catch her unawares with the news. “You name the time and place, since you’re the one dealing with jetlag.”

“Fantastic,” she said. “I really do look forward to working with you. How about Aldo’s at five, tomorrow? I’ll have everything ready for you by then.”

“I believe that can be arranged,” Tony agreed. He stood and offered his hand again. “A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Longfellow.”

“I certainly hope it will be,” she said, and her handshake wasn’t anything particularly unusual, but the way she let go, and let her fingers linger on his wrist was… overly familiar. Flirty, even. So, maybe she had done her research, but was working with slightly old data.

* * *

“So, we’re spying on your husband to be,” Bucky said, flatly, giving his sister a raised eyebrow.

“We are not _spying_ ,” Natasha said, nose in the air. “We are having a lovely dinner at a restaurant which my fiancé has recommended.”

Bucky looked down at her anyway. Natasha was quite a bit shorter than he was, even when she was wearing ridiculous heels. “Are you _worried_?” Because if she was jealous, then that was-- well, he wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. But if Natasha was getting attached to Tony, enough so that she was concerned that he was potentially seeing another woman, well, then. 

Well, he’d have to sit down and think it over, really. If Tony was just a useless fribble, maybe Bucky was less interested than he thought he was. And if Natasha was concerned, then Bucky didn’t want to step on her toes, either. _Face it,_ he told himself. _Clint was right, scale of one to ten, I am fucked up to eleven._

“I am not,” she said loftily. “Appearances matter, of course, but he has no reason to lie to me about such a thing. _He_ is concerned, whether he realizes it or not. Something about this woman has made him uneasy. And so we will discover what it is.”

“By spying,” Bucky said, just because he knew it would annoy her. It was, in fact, one of his primary forms of entertainment. Could he get Natasha to abandon her pose as a sophisticated woman, and throw breadsticks at him or something equally childish? 

She glared at him, and Bucky mentally scored a point for himself. “Call it what you like,” she said, picking up her wineglass and swirling it to watch its legs as it ran back down the bowl. “I am protecting our future.”

“I’m… I don’t know what I’m doing,” Bucky muttered. “And I keep wondering how much you know.”

“You are escorting me so that the society tongues will not cluck over my having dinner by myself,” Natasha said. “And everything is always easier if you assume I know everything.”

“Infinitely more humiliating, though,” Bucky said. “If I assume I have some secrets, I might have some dignity.” He glanced around the restaurant, curious. They had a pretty good line of sight when Tony came in with his guest; Tony probably wouldn’t see them, unless he craned around, though, since they were looking at the back of his head. “She’s pretty.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed. “Too thin, but pretty in that half-starved American way.” She tore off a piece of her bread and ate it. “She is wearing too much makeup.”

“I don’t understand how American women can be so thin when American food is like this,” Bucky said, spooning his soup. It wasn’t really what he thought of as being _soup_ , all rich cream and cheese, but it was good. He took another mouthful, letting his eyes drift over the crowd, unconsciously _watching_ , the way Ivan had taught them.

Natasha shrugged. “Because it is expected of them,” she said, “and so they do what they must. I am lucky that Tony does not prefer the starved-waif look.”

He glanced at his sister over his soup spoon. “You are nothing like her, this is true.” He found himself looking at the woman with the mahogany curls again, without meaning to. She-- looked familiar, somehow. “Natasha, look--” He didn’t quite point, that would be rude and draw attention. “--the woman in the blue glittery dress with the curls. Have we seen her before? She looks familiar.”

Natasha’s gaze swept the room, appraising. She didn’t linger on the woman in the blue dress, but her brow furrowed, just a bit, as she completed the review. “Yes,” she said. “I think we have, but I cannot-- The reporter woman,” she realized suddenly. “From the airport. Evenart? No; _Everhart_. What is she doing here?”

Bucky pointed his spoon at his sister. “She could be enjoying a nice dinner at a restaurant that a friend recommended.” Because she had sightlines on Tony’s table, too, now that he was looking more closely. “That’s her cameraman, too. I didn’t know him because he looks like a turtle when he is under all this equipment.”

“Her bag does not match her dress,” Natasha said. “I wonder what she has in it. A camera? A directional microphone?” She looked at James. “We are not spying. _That_ is spying.”

“It is still a horse, even if it’s not a show pony,” Bucky pointed out. “I wonder what her angle is? She has already asked many questions, about him, about you.”

“Does she think she will catch him cheating?” Natasha wondered. “Even if he were so inclined, he would not be so foolish as to arrange a meeting here, a place so popular.”

Bucky shook his head, feeling that same, impotent anger burning in him. It raged through him in Moscow, when there was nothing he could do to fit in, and now, here was this woman, this reporter, who was trying to _hurt_ Tony. “I could probably steal the bag,” he suggested. “It would be a challenge, but completely possible.”

“No,” Natasha said, “if it’s so important, she will be watching it closely; you could get in trouble. What--” Her gaze shifted. “What is that woman doing?”

Tony’s dinner companion had slid close to him, was sliding her hand up his arm. Tony gently took hold of her wrist and pulled it away, shaking his head. But while he was doing that, she leaned in very close. From the wrong angle, from Christine’s angle, she might be perceived as either kissing him, or warding off an unwanted advance.

“It’s a set up,” Bucky said, suddenly grateful for how many years of training Ivan had put him through, that he was able to keep calm, not leap from the table to throttle someone. “Whatever she is doing, she knows Everhart is there. She wants to be seen. Someone should tell Tony.”

Natasha nodded, suddenly brisk and businesslike. “The restroom,” she suggested. She already had her phone out and was tapping at it. “I am an _emergency contact_ ; his phone will ring for me even if it is turned off. You go, now. I will send him to you.”

Bucky knew that most people, if they didn’t know him or Natasha, would think they were a couple; they looked like a couple, beautiful and often well matched. It was only once a person talked with them that the true nature of their relationship became clear. So he stood graciously, as if excusing himself, giving Natasha’s hand an affectionate squeeze.

No one should notice them, because they weren’t unusual. He charted a path through the restaurant to the bathrooms, keeping at least one table between himself and Everhart. This was not the time for her to notice him.

Faintly, over the quiet murmur of conversation and clink of tableware and dishes, he heard the chime from Tony’s phone. Tony pulled it out, his free hand waving in what was, no doubt, an apology. He looked down and, several seconds later, pushed away from the table, waving another apology.

Bucky got to the men’s room, checked it. There was one man washing his hands, and another leaving. Three urinals against the wall, and two stalls on the other side, and then, just around the corner, a stall with a wheelchair printed on the front of it. It was out of sight of most of the bathroom, and had a door that reached all the way to the floor, which was even better. He didn’t understand the American bathrooms, that had stalls where you could see under to count feet. There were easy-to-make privacy indicators, so why have an utter lack of privacy in most bathrooms?

The man washing his hands finished and pulled a paper towel to wipe them with, then tossed the towel in the general direction of the trashcan as he pulled open the door. He nearly bumped into Tony, who was coming in.

“‘Scuse me, sorry,” Tony murmured as he dodged around the man. “What the hell kind of cold war spy bullshi-- James?”

“It is exactly cold war spy bullshit,” Bucky said. “Come here, with me, now.” He grabbed Tony’s wrist and pulled him back to the stall.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tony demanded, though he let Bucky tug him into the stall and shut the door. “What’s going on?”

“That is a question I think we would all like to know the answer to,” Bucky said. “You are being watched.”

“I’m a celebrity. In New York. I’m always being watched.”

“Yes, and your picture all the time, in the paper. I know. Tzar of America,” Bucky said, exasperated. “But this is _Everhart_. She is out there. _In disguise_. She is already being up in our business, as you Americans say. She is up to something.”

Tony frowned. “In disguise? Why-- What could she be up to?”

“What, do you wish me to go ask her?” Bucky wondered. “We saw her, we thought you should be warned.”

Tony frowned. “Yeah, okay. That’s... A matter of concern, I grant. Which does not,” he added, glancing sharply at Bucky, “explain why you and Natalia were there to see it.”

“Natasha was hungry and wanted me to take her to dinner,” Bucky said, blandly. Hell, Natasha got away with that bullshit all the time, maybe he should try it.

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. “Coincidence. Really?” He shook his head. “Never mind that now. She’s obviously trying to catch me at something -- which is ridiculous, because this is just a business dinner, they happen all the time -- or she’s trying to set me up for something.” He frowned, considering.

“If you are seen--” Bucky cautioned. He was just getting ready to mention that cheating on Natasha would look very bad when a judge went to decide about custody when the door swung open, letting in music and conversation from outside, and-- Tony looked like he was getting ready to say something stupid, or really, anything at all, and give the whole game up.

Bucky moved in closer, getting ready to put his hand over Tony’s mouth to keep him quiet, but they-- were already _very close_. 

Practically kissing close.

Tony’s eyes went wide, but he glanced toward the stall door and the sounds of the person who’d come in, and bit his lip. Was Bucky imagining it, or did Tony’s eyes flick briefly toward Bucky’s mouth?

He should look away; he wasn’t Natasha, he couldn’t hide how he felt about things, he never could, and he was staring right into Tony’s eyes. Might as well rip his heart out and have done with it.

And Tony wet his lips.

It could have been a nervous habit, or just that his mouth was dry, or--

It didn’t matter. Bucky moved even closer, until they were practically breathing the same air. Until he could see every golden fleck in those brown eyes, could practically count them.

Tony wasn’t looking away, either. There was something in his eyes, something Bucky couldn’t read but wanted to believe was hopeful and _wanting_. He licked his lips again and his hand came up to rest lightly on Bucky’s arm. “James...” It wasn’t even a whisper, was barely a breath.

“Tony--”

And then it was as inevitable as gravity. He didn’t kiss Tony, so much as he fell under Tony’s spell. Captivated, compelled. Kissing him was the natural reaction to being so close; like the inevitability of fate.

Tony’s mouth was hot and soft and yielding, letting Bucky plunge in. Tony’s hand tightened on Bucky’s shoulder, and his body swayed closer, like magnets attracting one another, until they were pressed together from chest to thigh.

He had to be imagining it, how willing, how eager. He supposed it didn't matter now; his secret was out, he was throwing sanity off the side of the boat along with every ounce of caution. He probably could have stopped, would have if Tony had protested or fought him at all, but _he wasn't._

In fact, Tony's hands were gripping Bucky's coat, holding on, holding Bucky _closer_.

The other person finished their business and left the room; there was a brief swell of sound drifting in from the dining room and then quiet again, which made Tony’s desperate groan seem all the louder.

With Bucky’s brain checked out, Bucky’s body had every intention of taking as much advantage of the situation as possible.

Oh, he _wanted_ to. Whatever it was, he wanted it. Wanted to shove Tony against the door of the stall and lift him, until Tony’s legs went around his hips. Wanted to make Tony writhe with pleasure--

In the end, his self-preservation was too strong, and he knew damn well if he made Natasha rescue him from one more spectacular mess, she was going to _kill him_. Or give him her I _am very disappointed_ look, which might be worse. Death would be over sooner.

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Bucky said, each one a little more desperate than the last. “Hey-- hey, tiger, we gotta… shit, we are in _so much trouble_.”

Tony’s eyes squeezed shut and he shook his head, just a little, but he tipped his head back against the wall and sighed. “Son of a bitch.” As if belatedly realizing he still had Bucky’s jacket clenched in his hands, he finally let go, hands moving stiffly, jerkily, as if every movement had to be forced. “Okay, this is... We can figure this out.”

“Yes,” Bucky agreed, and he was breathing too hard to be calm, but he needed to be calm. “Shit. _Shit_. All right. This is what we are going to do. You are going to go back to your dinner and enjoy it. But not _that_ much.” He scowled. “I will… make sure Everhart does not have any pictures.”

“How are you going to do-- No, don’t tell me; I’ll need plausible deniability. Just... don’t let her see you.”

“Did _you_ see me?” Bucky asked him, giving Tony a sly smirk. “No one ever sees me, if they are not supposed to.”

Tony huffed. “Yeah, okay. But be careful.” He looked into Bucky’s eyes, searching for something. “We’ll figure the rest of it out... later.”

“You are family now,” Bucky said. “Whatever… later happens. We protect our own. I promise. I won’t screw it up.”

His feelings, Tony’s feelings, they would deal with whatever had just happened. But right now, Tony was in danger; it didn’t matter that it was a reporter and a shady businesswoman. It didn’t matter that no one was probably going to stab or shoot Tony (probably). Bucky looked after the people who trusted him.

He gave Tony a quick once over, brushing out the wrinkles in his jacket and straightening his tie. “Do not look behind you, when you walk out to her.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I know how to play an audience,” he said. “You do your bit; I’ll do mine.” He pushed his hand through his hair, scrubbed at his face, and then... turned into Tony Stark, billionaire celebrity businessman, with a confident smirk and calculating eyes. He slipped out of the stall, washed his hands, and then swept out of the bathroom without so much as a glance around.

Bucky didn’t wait too long when Tony returned the table. Everhart would be distracted, watching Tony. It was a simple matter to snag a waiter’s jacket from the kitchen on his way by, along with a bottle of wine. He was pretty sure Natasha would see him do it; they’d trained together after all, and she knew all his tricks, but Everhart never even looked around. He was waitstaff; unimportant. Irrelevant. He stopped for a moment to inquire at the table opposite hers, and then poured the entire bottle of wine into that bag.

Mission accomplished.

He went the long way around the restaurant just to be safe, and came back to their table from the left instead, sitting down without looking back.

“He believed you, and you took care of the camera,” Natasha summarized. “That’s good.” She cocked her head at him. “What has you so rattled?”

“This--” Bucky gestured aimlessly. “I don’t know.” He resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair, tug on the back of his neck. It was a tell, Ivan would say, letting Natasha know he’d made a mistake. Maybe a catastrophic one. “What do you think will happen now? Should we leave?”

She did an aimless sweep of the room. “It might be best,” she admitted. “Before we are recognized.”

“Split up and meet back at the penthouse?” It was much easier to spot a tail and throw one off if he was alone.

She took out the fancy-looking credit card Tony had given her and waved it delicately in the direction of their waiter. “Yes, if you like,” she said breezily. “I have some shopping I want to do, anyway.”

“Good,” Bucky said. He could feel his paranoia ramping up as it was, although honestly, it was probably just guilt. He needed some time to stew in it before he could be productive again.

When the server came by with their check, Bucky shadowed the man out, using him as cover to get to the door, and then slipped out of the restaurant and onto the busy street. 

He would walk a while, think, make sure he wasn’t followed. 

And then go home and face the music.


	10. Chapter 10

Whatever Longfellow and Everhart were up to, the rest of the meal was almost anticlimactic. They’d finished the meal, dickering gently over SI’s possible investment. Longfellow had tried a few more times to lean in close, to touch his hand or his shoulder, and he’d managed to evade her advances. He’d picked up the tab, then shown her to her car with a careful handshake.

He was just reaching his car when he heard a screech of rage. He glanced back toward the restaurant. Through the windows, he saw Christine Everhart, a bad wig askew on her head, on her feet, wildly gesticulating at the manager.

Time to make his exit, then. He thumbed the fingerprint lock on his car door and slid into the seat.

He was reaching for the seatbelt when someone sat up from the back seat. “It must be a female thing,” Natalia said, smoothing out her hair. “Women _look_ in the backseat before they get in the car.”

Tony jumped and pressed his hand over his chest. “Jesus, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Shouldn’t that wait until _after_ the wedding, if you’re going to Black Widow me?” He twisted around to look at her. “Do you want to move to the front seat and be more comfortable, now that you’ve scared twenty years off my life? The back seats in these things are really more like suggestions than real seats.”

She chuckled, but managed to climb over the console with ease, settling into the seat. “I merely suggest that you might attempt to be more observant. Also, I did not want to risk being seen, if she followed you out here.”

“You could’ve just played the jealous fiancée card,” Tony suggested, starting the car and sliding out of the parking space. “Is there somewhere you’d like me to take you?”

“I will play that card, if necessary,” Natalia said, “but I prefer to save cards, for a later hand. Perhaps that one will not be required.”

“I hope not. I’ve done a lot of shitty things in the past, but I’m going for a more wholesome image these days.” He glanced at her as they pulled up to a stoplight. “Thanks,” he added. “For back there. It seems you and James pulled my fat out of the fire.”

“We are a team now. Family. You do not have to ‘go it alone’ as you Americans say.” She took a lipstick out of her purse and reapplied it.

“James said something similar,” Tony said. “I just thought she was going to be pushy. And probably try to be seductive, which is just... no. But I didn’t think it was a set up.”

“We did not, either,” she admitted. “But it is good we were keeping our hand in the game. You would have been in an uncomfortable situation, if we were not.” She looked out the window for a while, seeming to not see anything beyond the glass. 

“James is upset,” she observed.

Tony’s stomach clenched guiltily. “There was... He, well I, or...” He gritted his teeth. _Just say it._ “I... kissed him.”

Natalia actually turned in her seat to look at him. Her mouth curled, very slowly, into a creampot smile. “How delightful,” she said. “Did you enjoy it?”

“That... is not the response I’d imagined,” Tony confessed.

“As I said, I have many cards in my hand,” Natalia said. “You did not answer the question.”

“Um. Yes, actually.” He glanced at her as they moved forward again. She really didn’t seem to be upset, but Tony had misread things before. “I probably should not have.”

“Shouldn’t have enjoyed it? What a terrible thing to think,” she said. “If you are going to kiss, you should enjoy it. Ideally, so should they.”

“I meant, I shouldn’t have kissed him.” He looked at her again. “It seems... disrespectful, to say the least.” He grimaced. “I’m not a cheater.”

“That seems somewhat short-sighted,” Natalia said. “Or were you planning to live the rest of your life celibate? Ours, so far, is nothing more than a paper arrangement.”

“I know,” Tony said, because he did. “All the same, we _are_ engaged. I feel like I should at least have... I don’t know. Gotten your blessing, maybe, first. Especially since it’s your _brother_.”

“Of all the people in the entire world,” Natalia said, “I love James the most. His happiness, his needs, far outweigh any considerations of my own. You understand?”

He didn’t, not entirely. He’d never had a brother or a sister, never had any particularly close friends, aside from Pepper and Rhodey. But he thought he could see the edges of it. He _wanted_ to understand. “I think so,” he said after a moment. “But... you said he was upset. So maybe I _still_ shouldn’t have done it.” James had seemed more than eager in the moment, but regrets were like that, sometimes.

“James needs kissing,” Natalia said. “Often, and by someone who knows how. He has not had nearly enough joy in his life.”

“I am not necessarily opposed,” Tony said cautiously. “If he’s still willing. Though it complicates things.”

“Yes,” Natalia said, then, quite out of nowhere, she announced, “You should call me Natasha.”

“I... I should?” Tony knew enough to know that it was a sign of trust, of acceptance. “I’m... thank you. I’m honored. Natasha.”

“I do not know that you are wrong, about complications,” she said. “In light of your situation. The custody arrangements, by necessity-- is a woman _required_ , as your spouse?”

“Not... legally,” Tony said cautiously, thinking his way through it. “There’s still some prejudice, though, that Sunset could play up, depending on the judge who hears the case.”

Natasha nodded. “Well, we will forge ahead. I am, you should know, still willing and able to play the role. If you require a _mother_ for your child, to gain your custody. You should speak with James, at least.”

“Yes,” Tony agreed. “He and I should talk, and then, possibly, all three of us. So we all know what the plan is.”

“This is a good start,” Natasha said. “Hopefully, he will listen. I am concerned that my brother will attempt to do the wrong thing for the right reasons.”

Tony frowned. “Such as...?”

“James does not think he deserves to be happy,” Natasha said. “He does not know what to do with it. You may have to be patient.”

“Why wouldn’t he... No, I know, it’s probably not rational. Well. I’m not very good at _patient_ , but I sure as hell know how to be _stubborn_.”

Natasha patted his leg fondly. “It will work out. You will see.”

* * *

It wasn’t quite raining, because that would just be too much melodrama even for Bucky, but it was chilly and the weather was really thinking hard about rain. Bucky turned up his collar and flicked his hair out from under it, using the movement to scout behind him. If anyone was following him, he couldn’t tell.

He was just considering going down to the next subway station and picking his way home from there when something snagged his pants.

For about half a second, while his heart clenched and his breathing sped up and he was convinced, somehow, that Rumlow had made it all the way to the United States for the sole purpose of dragging Bucky off into an alley again--

It was a kitten.

It had grabbed hold of his shoelace and was attempting, diligently, to kill it, not at all mindful of claws and teeth and Bucky’s skin under his trousers.

It might have been white, under all the dirt. Thin and underfed looking, and when Bucky reached for it, it puffed up and yowled like a miniature demon in cat form.

It took a swipe at him with needle-like claws, but wobbled unsteadily and flopped over onto its side instead. It looked up at him suspiciously.

“You have a terminal case of baby,” Bucky told it. “You gonna let me touch you?” He held out his hand, level, one finger extended and waited.

It stared at him for another few seconds, then stretched out its neck and sniffed gingerly at his finger, pulling back immediately, and then stretching out to sniff again, bumping its nose against Bucky’s finger.

Waiting until some small amount of trust had been established, Bucky scooped the kitten up, letting it tuck its tiny head against his chest. “Wonder what happened to your mom,” he said. A quick sweep of the nearby alley didn’t gather him new information. Either mom was long gone, or someone had dumped the kitten. It was too filthy and hungry for a mom-cat to be nearby. “Look, you’re obviously cold and hungry and dirty, and-- ow, just a little bit bitey, stop that, I’m trying to help, you scrap. Tell you what, I’ll bring you home tonight. Just for tonight, and get you cleaned up, and then we’ll see if we can find you a new home, okay? Okay.”

The kitten was clinging to his jacket like a little burr, which Bucky took as agreement. 

He stood up, and it startled and tried to claw its way across Bucky’s chest, trying to burrow under the lapels of his jacket and hide, presumably in his armpit.

“You are trouble,” Bucky told it. “And your only redeeming feature is that you are somewhat more pathetic than I am.” He followed his nose to a food truck and shelled out rather a ridiculous amount of money for a street taco with no taco, just some flaked fish. “You hungry?”

The kitten meowed enthusiastically. Or at least, it tried. Its mouth opened wide enough for Bucky to see right down its throat, but all that came out was an extremely pitiful squeak. It reached out for the food with one paw, tiny claws at full extension as it batted at the paper, trying to drag it closer.

“Good, you are weaned,” he said, breaking off a tiny bit of fish and offering it. Either from necessity or because the kitten was old enough to be without a mother. Awkward, balancing kitten and taco, so Bucky found a set of steps to a shop to sit on, letting the kitten cower inside his jacket and eat off his leg. The suit was probably ruined, which might have been a bad thing. 

Especially if he’d screwed things up enough to Tony to have had enough of Russian con-men and their sisters. Well, he’d worry about that when it happened. The good thing, Bucky thought, about taking care of someone -- or something -- else, was that it gave you less room in your head to worry about your own shit. 

The kitten scarfed down the entire taco’s worth of fish over the span of about fifteen minutes, which was impressive, given that there had been nearly as much fish as kitten. Finished, it sniffed at the now-empty paper, then hunkered down in the little cave of Bucky’s jacket and started purring, almost too quiet to hear, though he could feel the rumble of it against his ribs.

Bucky sat there for a while longer, and then, moving carefully, plucked the sleepy kitten out of his lap and tucked it in his jacket pocket. There was plenty of room in there for a kitten, and he wouldn’t have to worry about dropping it. 

The question now was-- which way was home? He was going to have to walk; he couldn’t imagine taking a kitten on the subway, it’d be scared to death. Ah, there. He oriented himself -- at least Stark Tower was tall enough to see from the street, in most parts of the city where Bucky had been so far.

The kitten protested the pocket a little, squirming and clawing, until it seemed to realize that this was an even cozier den. It squirmed around some more, then curled up and -- Bucky assumed -- went to sleep.

One thing he would say, about fifteen blocks later, was that Tony’s tailor had picked out some good damn shoes. In Moscow, shoes either looked nice, or they were warm and durable, but not both. These shoes were still intact, and while his feet were a bit sore, he didn't’ have any blisters.

He leaned against the elevator and pushed the button for the penthouse.

“This,” he told the sleepy kitten, “is going to suck.”

The kitten didn’t deign to answer, but a flick of its tiny tail seemed to suggest that they were both warm and dry and fed, and therefore better off than they’d been two hours ago.

He hesitated in front of the door. He almost knocked, but that would have suggested that he didn’t think he belonged there anymore. Which, while perfectly true, would have put him at a disadvantage to admit it. 

Bucky opened the door before he could overthink it and tried not to look like he was sneaking in; a teenager out past the curfew.

“James!” Natasha greeted him, sounding happy and welcoming. She twisted around on the sofa to look at him. “You have come home, finally! Come -- I am teaching Tony Russian and his accent is _so_ funny!” She turned to prod at Tony. “Show him!”

Tony rolled his eyes. “ _S’ priyezdom_ ,” he said, or at least, Bucky assumed that’s what he was trying to say. It sounded like a warped record, some of it drawn out too long, other bits swallowed and slurred.

Bucky squinted. “Is your cold coming back?”

Tony huffed and folded his arms, faux-annoyed. “Everyone’s a critic,” he grumbled.

“You will get better,” Bucky promised. Because he really, couldn’t possibly, get worse.

Tony grunted. “Natasha says I should practice with you, once I have more than a dozen words or so in my vocabulary.”

“There are still words in my English that are terrible,” Bucky said, seeing the perfect lead in. “For example--” He plucked the kitten out of his pocket and sat it on the coffee table. “Cat.” He’d been told multiple times his _a_ was wrong in the word, that cat didn’t rhyme with bit, but Bucky couldn’t seem to hear the difference.

The kitten looked up at him, offended, and then let out a little squeak of confusion as it looked around.

“Oh, who’s this?” Tony wondered, leaning forward to look at the little thing. “Oh, wow, snowball, you need a _bath_.”

“Where did you find him?” Natasha wondered.

“On the streets, trying to eat shoes,” Bucky said. “Fish was better, but he’s so _small_ , I couldn’t just leave him.” He gave his sister the wide, pleading eyes, hoping she’d make the case for Tony to at least let the kitten stay overnight or until they could find a better home.

“Hmm.” Tony had his phone out and was tapping on it rapidly. “There’s a vet a couple of blocks down with an appointment open, or do you want to find one who makes house calls?”

Bucky blinked. “A-- a doctor for cats, right?” 

“Well, animals in general, but yeah,” Tony said, barely looking up from his phone as he continued to poke at it. “Filthy as he is, and so small, he’s probably a stray, which means he’ll need shots, and to be checked for pests, and a decent grooming. And just to be safe, we’ll check and see if he’s chipped, but I’m pretty positive he’s not a lost pet. We’ll probably need some advice on care, too, until he’s grown a little more.”

Bucky looked at Tony, and then at his sister and mouthed, “we?” at her, like an absolute idiot.

Natasha just raised her eyebrows at him and smiled smugly.

“Okay,” Tony said, apparently oblivious to Bucky’s confusion. “We’ll wait on the vet’s advice for food, but I’ve set up an order for a litterbox and stuff.” He tucked his phone back into his pocket and held out a finger for the kitten to sniff, which it did, warily.

“I-- uh, he has hours at night?” The idea of a pet doctor wasn’t completely ludicrous, but it was certainly nothing that Ivan would have allowed money to be spent on. He’d not been happy at all when a teenage Bucky had brought a starving puppy home one time, either. Fortunately, Bucky’d found a home for it in a few days, although he went without meals to get the dog fed.

“Yeah, it’s a 24-hour place. For emergencies, mostly, probably, but you’ve also got people adjusted to night shifts, and just plain old night owls, and whatever. It’s fine.” Tony carefully scritched the top of the kitten’s head. “Christ, what were you doing; sleeping in car engines? You’re _covered_ in grease.”

“I looked around, where I found him,” Bucky said, feeling the need to explain more, even though none was being demanded. “There was no one, and no mother cat.” It was strange, Tony just-- like nothing had happened, like Bucky hadn’t screwed everything up, and like-- it was perfectly reasonable to bring a stray, filthy animal, probably covered in fleas and belly filled with worms, and just. Keep it.

It was like waking up to find out the grass was pink and the sky orange.

“ _What happened, while I was gone?_ ” he demanded of his sister in Russian. Tony could only have learned so many words, yet.

“ _We talked,”_ Natasha said calmly. “ _You told him yourself that he is family now, did you not? Did you think that meant only you must give, and he must take?”_

Tony was looking up, glancing between them. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, I--” Bucky sat cross legged on the floor, putting himself at eye level with the kitten, who bumped directly into his face. “I’m-- thank you.”

“For what? The vet and stuff? That’s just enlightened self-interest; I don’t really want him making a mess of everything right off the bat.”

Bucky felt like some sort of computer program stuck in a faulty logic loop, going over the same problem over and over. “I… did not expect you to want, to allow. I didn’t even think to ask you, I assumed you wouldn’t… that I’d find a home for him, but-- I didn’t know it would be this one.” He blinked, his mouth twisting and it was all he could do not to cry over a stupid, stray kitten, but he was struggling with it anyway.

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m not allergic or anything, and this is your home too. Oh, speaking of allergies, let me know if you happen to get any strawberries so I don’t, like, absentmindedly put any in a smoothie I take to work. Pepper’s been known to steal a sip or two, and strawberries are her kryptonite.”

That lump in his throat got even bigger, not only was it hard to talk around, it was hard to breathe around. Home. This was his _home_.

Tony was still rambling, telling Natasha a story about one time he’d brought Pepper fresh strawberries as a gift and they’d had to fumigate her office afterward, and the kitten was determinedly rubbing itself on Bucky’s face.

Natasha laughed at Tony’s story and then gave Bucky a knowing look. “Isn’t this nice?” she said. “I like this.”

“It’s, yes, it’s good,” Bucky managed. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “Can you make the appointment?”

“Sure thing,” Tony agreed readily. He tugged his phone back out and tapped. “Have you named him yet?”

“No,” Bucky said, half indignant. “You just told me he was mine not three minutes past. Naming… names are important.”

“Unnamed, got it,” Tony said. “No sweat.” A few more taps, and then the phone went back into his pocket. “And done.”

“Good,” Natasha declared. “And now we can all talk.”

Now, Bucky thought, was the perfect time to panic. But there was no point in trying to put it off, either. He knew that look on his sister’s face. And there was no point in trying to play dumb, either. “Yes, probably.”

Tony nodded, looking thoughtful, and then speared Bucky with a direct look. “Natasha isn’t upset about what happened,” he said. “In case you were worried about that.” He looked wry. “ _I_ was worried about that.”

“I was more worried that _you_ are upset about what happened,” Bucky mumbled, not bothering to look away from the kitten. “Natasha can only kill me once.”

“Can I kill you multiple times?” Tony wondered. “This is a superpower I didn’t know about. I wonder if I should register as a supervillain or something.” Natasha coughed. “Right, sorry. I’m not upset, why would I be upset? She said _you_ were upset.”

Bucky did, finally, drag his attention off the kitten. “I could have ruined everything, because I am _stupid_ , I cannot control myself. You--” He waved one hand around and got hissed at by the kitten for his trouble. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.”

Tony snapped his fingers and pointed at Natasha. “I told you, we should’ve talked _first_.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “but neither of you was _going_ to talk, so this is better.”

“What is there to talk about?” Bucky didn’t yell, but it was a near thing. “It is… settled, it is decided. You are going to _marry_ my sister.” Like maybe Tony had forgotten that part. 

“Maybe,” Natasha said.

“Nothing is written in stone,” Tony said. “Or even legally-binding contracts. This--” He gestured between himself and Bucky. “--muddies the waters, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be navigated.” He cocked his head. “What do you _want?_ Because if all you’re after is a tumble or two, then nothing has to change. But if you want... more. Then we’ll need to figure it out.”

Bucky blinked, expecting reality to change. It really was too much, and he resented, just a little bit, the fact that fate had landed everything on his head all at the same time. “Let me say that back, in case I do not understand,” he said, slowly. He could feel himself blushing furiously. He didn’t talk about these things, _no one_ talked about these things. You got a nod, or a shake, you did your business in a back alley and hoped that no one else saw you. “You are saying, if I want-- to go to your bed, just, for what? A good time? That would be fine, no one will-- object?”

Tony’s head dipped a little. “In the interest of full disclosure,” he said, and now _he_ was looking at the kitten, “I might be a little disappointed. I’d like more. If you do, too. If we can figure out how to make it work.”

Bucky took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but there was no steadying. His sister was sitting there, on the edge of the sofa, all but radiating smugness. Satisfaction.

And it hit Bucky like a mountain. “This is what you wanted, the whole time,” he accused her, not angry, he wasn’t angry. Or at least, not with her. Angry, perhaps, with himself that once again, he couldn’t see what she was doing until it was done.

“What I want,” Natasha said, very precisely, “is for you to be happy. You were never going to be happy in Moscow, in Russia. So, we came here. I thought you and Tony would be a good match, but who knows, until you actually meet? I wasn’t sure. It was enough, maybe, to be somewhere you didn’t have to hide. If you had met someone else you liked, someone who made you happy, then you would have my blessing. But you and Tony like each other, you are _good_ together.”

He felt as though he were being vivisected, every bit of him peeled back and laid bare. “I… I did find someone else, but I didn’t want him.” A hundred years later, he managed to look up at Tony. “I wanted you.”

“It just about killed me, watching you walk away with someone else,” Tony admitted. His eyes were warm, his smile knowing and somewhat rueful. “I told myself I was trying to get over it.”

“That-- why-- But I--” Bucky shook his head. “There was never any reason to get over me. I was never going anywhere.” Which was both true and a little pathetic. He’d have stayed, his whole life, he thought, as the brother-in-law, just to be near Tony.

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I? So does that mean you want more, too?” Tony sounded hopeful.

“More,” Bucky said. He was pretty sure he was in agreement with more; he just wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, right at this very moment. It seemed like _too much._ He had a cat and a home, and a friend he could text with… and a _boyfriend._ Way too much.

“Is good,” Natasha announced. “Now that I know you have stopped being stupid, and that you both have someone who will take care of you, we must go and take care of the cat.”

“Here is a word for you, Tony, that you should say to Natasha, regularly,” Bucky said. “It’s _suka.”_

“ _Suka_?” Tony repeated, and glanced at Natasha, whose eyes were narrowed at Bucky. “I think, probably, I should forget I heard that one. For the sake of my future health.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut-averse readers - you'll want to stop reading shortly after the break, after the kitten gets put to bed.

“He’s not chipped,” the vet said, peeling off blue nitrile gloves. “And while a little dehydrated -- we gave him some fluids -- and has fleas, there’s nothing much wrong with him that a little love and time won’t take care of. He has a bit of a chest infection, so to be safe, we’d like to start him on a run of antibiotics; we can give that to you in a dropper form and you can mix it in with his formula. He was forcibly weaned, but we like to make sure that growing kittens get all the nutrition they need, so for a week or two, it’s probably best if you go ahead and bottle feed him.”

“Right,” Tony said, making notes on his phone. “Can we get the formula and bottle from you, or should I order one? Can you do a flea dip on a cat this young? I’d like to avoid an infestation.” He’d already placed an order for the vet-approved kitten chow and a couple of toys.

“Unfortunately, no,” the vet said. “But we can bathe him, which will remove most of the fleas. You’ll want to bathe him every few days; fleas lay their eggs on the kitten, who then ingests them while grooming. And then the whole cycle starts up again.” The vet continued to give instructions on bathing, and James piped in with a question or two. 

“You can blow dry a cat?” He seemed incredulous, almost offended, at the idea.

“It’s ideal,” the vet said. “Kittens get cold really easily, that’s why they sleep in piles. Without any littermates, you will have to make sure he doesn’t get cold, which means drying him thoroughly after a bath. Some kittens get used to the noise, just do it from two feet away and keep the dryer moving so he doesn’t get a burn.”

Tony added pet shampoo and a low-noise blowdryer to his shopping list. And a heated cat bed. The kitten would need a collar, in case he got out by accident, but probably James should pick that out, since it was James’ cat. “Okay, I think that’s everything. When should we bring him back?”

“If you notice any fever -- his ears will get hot -- or coughing. Worms in his stool, or shivering, bring him back immediately. Otherwise, we’re guessing he’s about four weeks old or so, bring him back in four weeks and we’ll start his vaccinations.”

Tony nodded and added a reminder to his calendar. “Got it. Ready to head home?”

“Home,” James said, and it sounded like agreement. He scooped up the kitten easily with one hand and tucked him against his side. 

“You may also wish to consider--” the vet picked up a soft-side pet carrier. “Getting him used to it now will make it easier later, when you may not be able to hold a squirming, fully grown cat, in a car.”

Tony nodded. “Add it to our stuff.” He’d let James decide whether to actually use the thing tonight, but they should probably have one for emergencies.

James kept the kitten with him the whole time Tony was checking out, but when they got near the exits, he unfolded the carrier. “At least it is not blue,” he said, flushing a little as he picked up the carrier over his shoulder like a woman would carry her purse.

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s wrong with blue?”

“I know, United States, it’s pink that’s the girl-color,” James said. “In Moscow, it is blue-- a _blue boy_ , a gay.”

“Ah, okay. Not quite ready for out-and-proud, hm?”

James gave him a quick shake of his head. “The last time someone called me _goluboi_ , his friend stabbed me while I was facing him off. Rumlow. It seems a lifetime ago, and yet, it was only a few months now.”

Tony winced. “Wow. I’m glad you left that behind.”

“Yes,” James agreed, finally getting the kitten to stop attacking the zipper through the mesh sides. “But no, I am-- not ready. I know, Americans are brave and loud and individuals.” He looked almost depressed at the thought, or disappointed in himself.

“Well, we’re certainly _loud_ ,” Tony agreed. “But most of us never have to face that kind of...” He waved a hand. “You don’t have to be ready right now. You don’t have to _ever_ be ready, really. That’s your choice.”

“Too many choices,” James grumbled, pushing the door open and holding it for Tony. “It is like the soup aisle in your grocery. How do you pick one soup from hundreds? At home, no choices. I don’t know if I like it, yet.”

“Choice paralysis,” Tony said, nodding. “It’s a documented phenomenon, that having too many choices is much harder than having only a few. We grow up with a hundred different soups and we learn early how to narrow our field of vision. Most people will only ever try a handful of them, and ignore the rest. You ever want help narrowing your choices down, I can give it a shot.”

“It is good,” James said. “Worst of the good choices, better than best of the bad choices. It is hard, but it’s not a wolf. It won’t run off into the woods.”

“Nope. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

James chuckled, but he also blinked several times, his eyes welling up. “You are a bad influence,” he said, fondly. “Always, around you, I am too emotional.”

“Stoic and macho masculinity is so last-decade,” Tony quipped, trying to lighten the mood a little. “Have you been thinking about names for the fluffball?”

James appeared to think it over. “I want-- he is very white and very fluffy,” he said. “But not snowball or snowflake. Alpine, maybe?”

“I like it,” Tony said. “We can live with it a while, see how it works.” He grinned. “You can always change it later. He’s a cat; he doesn’t care what you call him.”

“That’s probably true,” James said, then glanced at Tony. “But I do. Care, I mean. What you call me.” He flitted a dark-eyed look at Tony. “My middle name is Buchanan. My mom, I mean, my real mother, I don’t remember her. Named me after some American President. I don’t know why. She never got to tell me. My friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Tony repeated, and looked up at him. “Thank you. I knew that -- after the thing with your friend Clint -- but. I appreciate that. It kind of suits you, actually. Which is weird, because it doesn’t sound like a name who ought to suit anyone over the age of eleven.”

Bucky scoffed. “You go around calling yourself -- letting just everybody -- call you _Tony_.” He managed to say it with a hand gesture that implied someone who was, well, very small.

Tony just shrugged. “Nicknames and diminutives aren’t as big a deal, here. I’ve always been Tony.” He shot Bucky a grin. “Why, did you want a special name for me?”

“I will think of something,” Bucky promised. “Something that I can call you, that no one else will hear.”

Tony nodded, putting on his best I Am A Serious Businessman face, and suggested, “Studmuffin.”

“Ant-man,” Bucky shot back.

Tony gasped in mock-outrage. “I am hurt, that was hurtful, is what that was,” he complained. “More like _Iron Man_.” He struck a pose, just to make Bucky smile.

“ _Krasivyy_ ,” Bucky said, and then accompanied it with a gesture, which involved shifting one arm around and making Alpine complain about the ground moving under him.

Tony recognized the gesture as one of the ASL signs Clint had taught Bucky. The one Bucky had pointedly refused to translate. “Which means what?” he wondered.

Bucky grinned, steadying the kitten as they got to the car. “Nice ass,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat.

Tony snorted. “Well, that’s just the plain truth. My best non-liquid asset.” He wiggled his hips a little before getting in, himself.

“It is very lovely,” Bucky said, “but it is not your best asset. You are… more than just surface beautiful. You are a good, generous, loving person.”

That made Tony have to pause, to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. No fair, jumping without warning from playful banter to sweet sincerity. “That’s... very nice of you,” he said. “I hear a lot of compliments, but not very many like that.”

“You forget, I have seen you when you are sick,” Bucky said. “Someone once told me, you learn a lot about a person, seeing them ill, seeing them angry, seeing them frustrated. You learn who that person is, when they are not at their best. When they have nothing to gain. I have seen you, Tony Stark.”

Tony fought the urge to squirm in his seat. He knew how to take compliments about his intelligence and creativity, about his looks and his sense of style. He didn’t have so much practice accepting appreciation for who he really _was_. He took a steadying breath and glanced over at Bucky. “When do I get to see you, then?” he murmured. “As far as I can tell, you’re always at your best.”

“I’m told I’m not particularly friendly when I’ve been stabbed,” Bucky suggested. “I bled all over Natasha’s door. And her sofa.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think we’ll skip right over the stabbing portions of the personality test,” Tony said. “I had a friend once who said you should judge your dates by the way they treat service people -- waiters, cashiers, security guards, that kind of thing. That was how they’d treat you when they stopped thinking they needed to impress you.”

“A good observation,” Bucky said. “Especially for you. Everyone wants to impress you. Tzar of America.”

Tony huffed. “Or else see me overthrown and ground into the dirt.”

Bucky lifted his chin a little. “Let them try,” as if he were daring the masses to hurt someone he cared about.

Tony couldn’t help laughing, and he reached over to pat Bucky’s leg. “You and me against the world, huh?”

“You, and me,” Bucky said, and he rested his hand on top of Tony’s.

* * *

Bucky gave the kitten his recommended cat-milk formula, which smelled a little odd, but Alpine seemed to like it. Not on his back like a baby, but kneading a towel around the teat and upright.

It was a little awkward, but also oddly _warming_. Bucky always did like to take care of things; people, animals, tidy up rooms if he was left alone in them too long. For a long time, he’d only had Natasha to take care of, and her to take care of him.

Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that when he looked up, Tony was in the frame of his doorway, just watching.

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Tony said. “You could probably murder someone, and when they take you to the judge, just show them a picture of you feeding Alpine and you’d get off.”

“Yeah? I’ll remember that,” Bucky said, “if they ever find the bodies.”

Tony laughed and came the rest of the way into the room, reaching down to pet Alpine with two gentle fingers. “I talked to Natasha a little, but she says she is done talking for today and we can figure out our strategy tomorrow.”

“That is her way of saying she’s leaving the mess to clean up as part of our job,” Bucky said. He couldn’t help but gaze up in wonder. “It is difficult to believe-- that you would take so much risk, for me. To be with me.” 

“It’s really not that risky,” Tony said. “It does make the custody thing a little tricky, and the press is going to have a field day when it comes out, but the press is nothing if not easily-distracted. And I think you’re worth it.”

Alpine merped and kneaded harder at the bottle. “No, no, that’s all,” Bucky said. “You’ve eaten plenty, do you want to be the expanding Russian frontier? No, no you do not.”

Tony laughed again, a warm and happy sound. He sat down next to Bucky, close enough for Bucky to feel the heat radiating off his skin. “What’s next?”

“I have set up his bed for the night, warm blankets and my old watch for ticking. He may not like this much at first, but he cannot sleep in the bed with me yet, I might squash him. So, he will sleep in the box, which is too tall for him to climb out. Tomorrow, we will make better accommodations for him, but right now, little street beggar cats cannot be choosers, can they? No.” 

“Really, that’s adorable, the way you talk to him.” Tony bumped Bucky’s shoulder. “And then, maybe, some time for us?”

“Ivan said he should have known I was gay, the way I talk to children and animals. Like I’m their mother,” Bucky said. “I should not measure everything with Ivan’s ruler, I know. I’m working on this. But yes, put down the kitten and you shall have as much of my attention as you can stand.”

“Not sure that’s entirely possible,” Tony murmured, looking at Bucky warmly. “But I’m looking forward to the attempt.”

Bucky deposited the kitten in the makeshift shelter; a box, which he understood that cats liked, with a thick blanket and Bucky’s old watch ticking away. A stuffed toy long enough for Alpine to wrap his legs around and kick and bite. Which he promptly did when Bucky shook it at him. But it wasn’t long before the kitten was making biscuits in the blankets and settling in for a nap. 

He squatted there a while longer, just looking. And avoiding, he supposed, dealing with his new reality. Like candy floss, he expected it to just melt away, but when he finally drew on his resolve and turned around, Tony was still there. Still smiling at him with that same half-smirk, half-amazed smile. It made his whole face light up in a way that made it hard for Bucky to focus on anything else.

He held out a hand, inviting Bucky to take it. “My turn,” he said, lightly teasing.

“Shall I get you a glass of warm milk and tuck you into bed?”

“Without even a kiss goodnight?”

“Well, didn’t say that,” Bucky said, putting his hand in Tony’s and feeling the rub of his skin, the hard patches of calluses and the soft patch at his wrist. 

“Oh, well, in that case, I vote we skip the warm milk and go straight to the tucking.” Tony’s smirk grew even as his eyes darkened. “It might take a while. I’ve been waiting for a chance to reprise that kiss.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Bucky teased, and he couldn’t help but reach out, touch Tony’s face, trace the line of his lips with one fingertip. 

Tony caught Bucky’s hand, turning his head to press a kiss to Bucky’s palm. “So you’re drawing it out just to be mean? I see how it is.”

“Yes, my other nickname,” Bucky said, deadpan, “is Bucky the Terrible.” But he was pulled into the ring of Tony’s embrace with a magnetic steadiness, a tug that got greater with every millimeter he moved. “So, are you going to kiss me, or just stand there?”

“I vote for Door #1, Monty.” He curled one hand around the side of Bucky’s neck and leaned in to kiss Bucky. It was soft, almost tentative at first, and then more enthusiastic and passionate as Bucky responded.

Tony was the perfect height, a few inches shorter than Bucky, just enough for Bucky to tip his chin to one side, and for Tony to go up on his toes. It felt good, the weight of Tony, hanging onto his shoulders, the way their bodies pressed together, and the smell of Tony’s cologne was _everywhere_.

His mouth was soft, supple, and that clever tongue teased in until Bucky’s knees went wobbly and they were holding each other up like the first two cards in a house of cards. Bucky got his hands around Tony’s waist, dragging him even closer until there was nothing between them but heat. 

Tony let out a sigh that was well on its way to becoming a groan. “Yeah, that’s even better than I remember it,” he said when they finally were forced to part for air. He looked up into Bucky’s eyes, searching. “So, this bed you mentioned...”

“I think you remember where it is,” Bucky teased, “Or haven’t you ever been on this side of your own penthouse?” Despite that, Bucky led him backward, navigating by memory until his thighs hit the bed and he sat.

Tony kept going, planting his knees on either side of Bucky’s thighs and pushing forward until he was sitting on Bucky’s lap, arms draped loosely around Bucky’s neck. “Knowing where it is and knowing you’re ready to go there are different things,” he pointed out, and then leaned in to capture Bucky’s mouth again before Bucky could respond.

Like this, Tony’s head was higher than his, and it felt almost like surrender to tip his head back and let Tony in.

Bucky ran his hands down Tony’s back, across his sides, until he was gripping the belt loops in Tony’s pants, pulling them closer, his own hips moving, rocking up to grind up against Tony’s body and feel that delicious heat and pressure. “Think I was born ready for you,” Bucky murmured as he left a line of kisses across Tony’s cheek toward the base of his jaw, tonguing at that spot under his ear.

Tony shivered, plunging his hands into Bucky’s hair, stroking and petting and tugging, just a little, until Bucky obeyed the silent direction and moved his mouth down Tony’s neck. Then he reached back and tugged his shirt off over his head, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

Bucky struggled a bit with his own clothes, and then his shirt followed Tony’s, discarded and forgotten. He leaned back on the bed, until he was propped up on his elbows, letting them both cool down a little, so he could look at Tony. So he could be seen. “You are very beautiful,” Bucky said.

“So are you,” Tony returned, looking Bucky up and down hungrily. He ran his hands down Bucky’s chest, rasp of rough callus and then soothing, soft touch of fingertips. “So damn gorgeous.” Those fingers slid down Bucky’s stomach, making the muscles there tighten and twitch. “What do you want? How do you want it?”

“Want-- want to feel your mouth on me,” Bucky said, because that was true. He’d barely been able to stop staring at Tony’s mouth since he first saw the man. As well as other parts of him. Most of which Bucky would really like to see, at some point. And he had to groan against the sudden realization that he was going to, probably very soon.

“Yeah, that’s very doable,” Tony agreed. He leaned forward and mouthed at the curve of Bucky’s neck and shoulder, the spill of warm breath almost ticklish against Bucky’s skin. “Like this?” he murmured, teasing, and then wriggled downward, which was distracting all by itself before Tony’s mouth closed on Bucky’s nipple, heat and wet and the almost-too-soft torment of his flickering tongue. “Or this?”

Bucky shuddered, arching up into that heat, swearing soft and urgent, his hands locking into Tony’s hair to keep him there, as if he could keep him there forever. “That’s…” He didn’t even know what it was, falling back onto the bed and bringing Tony down with him until his weight was pressed into Bucky, holding him like gravity.

“Mm, very responsive,” Tony purred. “I like it.” He licked and sucked at Bucky’s nipples for another moment, and then wriggled again and slid off Bucky -- off the bed -- entirely, landing on the floor with a soft thump. When Bucky looked down, Tony’s hands slid up Bucky’s thighs, coming to rest right at the waistband of Bucky’s pants. “Or maybe you meant something like this, hm?” He leaned forward and mouthed at Bucky’s cock through the fabric, an unbearable addition of pressure and heat without being quite enough friction to satisfy.

“That’s good, too,” Bucky said, trying to stay calm, even if his heart was racing and his breath was coming in ragged tears. “Need some help? A map?”

Tony chuckled. “I am tempted to say yes, just to see what sort of map you’d give me,” he admitted, but then he was opening Bucky’s pants, easing them down. “God, even your dick is gorgeous.” He licked it once, like a lollipop, long and slow, before he went back to working Bucky’s pants off.

Bucky shivered, fell back on the bed, covering his face with his forearm. It was almost too sweet to stand it, too good to stay still. And it was even worse -- or was that better, Bucky couldn’t tell -- when he couldn’t see what Tony was doing. 

The pants disappeared, pulled the rest of the way off, and then Tony was fitting himself between Bucky’s knees, hands caressing lightly over Bucky’s hips and sides. “That’s it, sweetheart, just let me make you feel good.” Another of those broad, slow licks, and then wet heat engulfed him entirely.

Quite possibly the only reason Bucky didn’t scream was that some part of him was still aware that his sister wasn’t entirely that far away, and he didn’t really want her to poke her head in to make sure everything was okay. But it was a near thing; so good, so hot, so-- his wits deserted him entirely, and it was all he could do not to thrust up into that heat. He took great handfuls of the bedcovers to hold himself down, to keep still. “Tony--”

Tony hummed, and that sent a shock of sensation right to Bucky’s core until a whine slipped through his teeth. Tony was moving now, slow and then speeding up and then slowing down again, with no discernible pattern.

Tony reached up, groping until he found Bucky’s hand, and then gently tugged it loose, resting it on the top of his head.

Bucky slid his fingers into Tony’s hair, getting a good handful. It was never the whole hank of it that hurt, unless you pulled too hard, but the little individual hairs. A good grip, at the back of the head, and Bucky had almost total control of where Tony went, and it wouldn’t hurt him, just provide stimulation to the scalp. Strange, the things Bucky learned from pulling cons. “You look very pretty, just like that,” Bucky said, and nudged Tony’s mouth where he wanted it, needed it.

Tony hummed some more, sounding pleased and content, and he didn’t exactly go _limp_ , but he relaxed, went pliant, letting Bucky set the pace and the rhythm.

It was easy to lose himself in it, the give and take, the slick strokes, the way he moved, and the way Tony moved against him. The feel of Tony’s breath on his skin, the way his tongue wriggled with unbelievable sensuality. Bucky could barely think coherently, much less act with any restraint.

He felt it, on the very edge of it. Not just a simple orgasm, but a tactical nuke. He tugged at Tony’s hair, just enough to pull him back. He slid off with an obscene slurp. “Gonna,” Bucky managed to say. “Soon.”

“That’s the idea,” Tony said, and his voice was a little rough. “You want my mouth for that? It’s okay; I don’t mind it. Or something else?” His hands were stroking up and down Bucky’s thighs, firm, keeping Bucky grounded.

“Want you to feel good, too, yeah?” Bucky asked, not quite struggling, but putting some effort into sitting up, realizing that he was, in fact, completely naked in front of Tony, and Tony still had his jeans on.

“Well, I’d like that too. But it doesn’t have to be right away. I’m a little older; it’s not quite as urgent.”

Bucky squirmed, because urgent was the word, exactly right. “You’re hardly old,” Bucky complained. “Bet you could wear me out. Bet I’d like you to.”

“I bet you would,” Tony agreed, chuckling wickedly. “How’s your stamina? If I make you come right now, how soon can you go again?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “If I’m doing for myself, maybe half an hour. With you-- bet it’d be faster.”

“Let’s find out,” Tony said brightly, and then he was on Bucky again, swallowing so deep that Bucky could feel the back of his throat, the tight squeeze of it.

“Tony--” Bucky swore, his vision going a little bright and blue with the force of it, and then he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, everything in him clenching up. He bit down on his forearm to smother his cries and he let go, spilling himself into Tony’s wet and willing mouth.

Tony swallowed it down, the ripple of his mouth and throat coaxing another hot wave out of Bucky, and swallowed again, not letting go until Bucky was completely spent and starting to edge into painfully oversensitive. He pulled off with a smug little grin and dotted a few kisses up the insides of Bucky’s thighs as he climbed back up onto the bed.

“You’re amazing,” Bucky told him, running his thumb over that swollen and pink lower lip. Bucky rolled him over, until he was half laying on Tony, exploring that lean body with one hand. “So, what do you like? Shall I draw you that map now? On your own skin?”

“By all means,” Tony agreed. He sprawled on his back and spread his arms wide. “I’m all yours.”

Bucky slithered down Tony’s body to unfasten the jeans and tussle with them enough to get them off. _Finally._

He rarely actually got to look at another man, unless it was a photo. They were always too rushed, or it was too dark, but Tony just lay under him, one hip cocked up provocatively. As if he knew what sort of image he was presenting, and relishing it. 

Tony was right, this was better. With the edge off, Bucky could take a few breaths, take his time. Explore Tony’s body. He tested, fingers and tongue and lips; not all of the places that were good for Bucky had the same reactions on Tony. But he did well enough, seeking them out. Bucky traced his fingers up Tony’s biceps, kissed his shoulder, nuzzled at the join of his throat, and when Bucky grazed his teeth against the muscle there, Tony hummed into it. 

“I do appreciate a fast learner,” Tony sighed, arching up into the touch. “Just-- yeah, just like that, god, that’s good.” His foot came up and was rubbing against Bucky’s leg, a restless point of contact.

Bucky found a particularly wicked spot, just along the crease in Tony’s hip, that was responsive to Bucky’s tongue, and Bucky played at it, while Tony squirmed and wriggled under him, that proud cock pushing urgently against Bucky’s chest.

Finally, though, he was down, tracing one finger along Tony’s length. Long, hard, a little thin, and bent slightly off to the left. Beautiful, perfect. Bucky teased around the crown, thumbed over the top. Like he was marking his territory. He followed that line again, this time with his tongue, feeling the velvet of Tony’s skin, tasting the salt and tang of it.

Tony gasped and strained upward. “Bucky-- God, that’s good, that’s perfect...” His hands brushed through Bucky’s hair, not quite taking hold but not far from it, either.

Bucky tipped his chin to look up, giving Tony his best sultry look, before lowering his mouth to that magnificent cock again. He wasn’t, he suspected, quite as good at this as Tony had been, but he’d figure it out. He slid down Tony’s length, taking it as deep as he could, pressing his tongue flat to the skin, and then humming, the way Tony had to see if it had the same response.

Tony shuddered and cursed and let go of Bucky to grab at the blankets. “Shit, oh fuck yes, that’s-- Oh _god_...”

Bucky chuckled, and that did something interesting as well, and Tony was all but flailing on the bed. “That’s pretty,” he said, pulling himself off, keeping two fingers sliding up and down Tony’s cock. “Watching you squirm around like that.”

“Kind of nice on this end, too,” Tony shot back, somewhat breathless. “Getting pretty close.”

“You want me to finish you off,” Bucky asked, “or-- you know, move on to something else?”

Tony appeared to consider it. “If you’re ready for something else, I’m game.”

“Oh, I think I can manage,” Bucky teased, curling his hand around Tony’s cock and giving it a few, interested tugs. “I have a--” It suddenly occurred to him that Tony probably _did_ know; he’d put the rooms together for them. “--supplies. In the bathroom.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah. Go ahead and get them, then. You want to top or bottom?”

Bucky didn’t answer that, walking over to the bathroom, utterly and completely aware of Tony’s eyes on him, and just the sense that Tony was _watching him_ was arousing. That Tony found him _worth_ watching. Bucky probably couldn’t have managed that hip swing the way Tony did, not without practice, but he did let himself fall into a more deliberate swagger.

Tony let out a low whistle, visibly and appreciatively ogling. He was stretched out on the bed -- on _Bucky’s_ bed -- and propped up on his elbows, one knee bent like a model just waiting on the camera.

Bucky twisted into a squat to dig through the cabinet; condom, lube. “There,” he said, coming back into the bedroom, and pausing to look at Tony, the room still smelling of their sex and sweat, and knowing it still wasn’t over. It was enough to make him swoon. Except then he’d miss it. “You know what a picture you make.”

“Glad you like it.” Tony sat up a little more. “You’re a pretty damned fine view, too. So -- preference? No answer is final, I swing pretty much all the ways.”

“Seems I’d heard that about you,” Bucky said, climbing back into the bed and settling himself between Tony’s thighs. He slid his hand down Tony’s chest, making a beeline for that beautiful cock. “I want this-- in me.”

Tony shivered at the touch and leaned up to kiss Bucky, slow and deep, still tasting faintly of Bucky’s own spend. “My pleasure,” he purred. “Come lay down, let me prep you, hm?’

Bucky breathed out, and then rolled onto his back, cocking his hips up and spreading his legs. “My pleasure,” he said, drawling the words, letting them roll out of his mouth. Watching Tony through lowered lashes.

Tony laughed a little. “We’ll make a proper American Asshole of you, yet,” he teased. He picked up the lube and poured some on his fingers, rubbing it around for a moment before reaching between Bucky’s legs to circle Bucky’s hole.

“You like me because I’m Russian,” Bucky told him, hissing softly, and then forcing himself to relax. He was always too tense, at first. Scared. And then it occurred to him that he didn’t need to worry. Tony wasn’t going to hurt him, or leave him to be arrested, or… just leave him, which had happened a few times, too. “Oh, oh, kitten, just like that.”

“Yeah?” Tony did it again, smiling at the shiver that rippled through Bucky’s body. “I don’t like you because you’re Russian,” he added. “I like you because you’re _you_.”

“That’s-- that’s good,” Bucky said, and he gasped when Tony breached him. “There’re lots of Russians, there’s only one me.”

Tony eased in slowly, eyes intent on Bucky’s face. “Christ, but you’re beautiful.” He leaned in to nuzzle at Bucky’s mouth, not quite a kiss, until Bucky tipped his head to turn it into one.

He spread his legs wider, trying to draw Tony in, to take all of him. He slid both hands down Tony’s back. “You-- huge,” Bucky managed. From the outside, Tony had looked long, but not thick. Taking him, however-- he panted through the burn. “Kiss me, yes?”

“As much as you want,” Tony promised, leaning back in to kiss Bucky again, and again, sweet and slow and unhurried. Gradually, he sank in to the hilt, and then held there, seemingly content to wait as long as Bucky wanted.

Bucky shuddered, shivered, clenched up; which brought a soft, needy moan to Tony’s lips, and it seemed that was the key-- Bucky’s body stopped fighting with him, knowing that Tony wanted him, wanted-- He shifted, rocking his hips experimentally.

Tony groaned again, tucking his face into the curve of Bucky’s neck. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Da,” Bucky said, listening to the sounds Tony was making, and he moved again. “You make it good.” And when Tony pulled back a little, Bucky couldn’t quite help the way his legs went up, wrapping around Tony’s waist, heels pushing against Tony’s back. _Down, in, stay._

Tony’s breath caught and he rocked back in, and it felt like he was even deeper now, with the change in angle. “You tell me when you’re ready,” he whispered.

“It’s good, you’re-- yes, move, move,” Bucky said, and he rocked with Tony, trying to anticipate, match him, and it was almost as if they were telepathically connected, because they synched up, rocking together, like music, perfect harmony.

Tony groaned a little with every thrust, murmuring curses and praise in Bucky’s ear. “So good, honey, you’re perfect, so good, you make me feel so good...” He shifted his position again, a little, dropping more weight onto one arm and sliding the other between them, still-slick fingers wrapping around Bucky’s cock.

Bucky shattered, not even aware of how close he’d been to the edge, but falling off was like flying, blissful and warm, and knowing Tony was right there to catch him. Everything in him clenched up and Tony moved him, moved in him, thick and huge and perfect. His fingers dug into the skin of Tony’s back, his mouth closed on Tony’s shoulder and he moaned into that safe spot as he spent himself.

It couldn’t have been more than another dozen strokes before Tony’s smooth motion became jerky and frantic, and then he gasped and came. He held his position through a few panted breaths, and then let himself collapse on top of Bucky. “God, that was... amazing.”

Bucky said something; he wasn’t sure what it was, or even if it was in English, but generally, he agreed with Tony’s assessment, but words were _hard_. He settled for nuzzling at the spot on Tony’s shoulder that was red and swollen from Bucky’s teeth.

Tony hissed a little but didn’t move for several minutes. Finally, though, he managed to muster enough energy to pull out, toss the condom toward the wastebasket, and then roll off Bucky to collapse up against Bucky’s side. “I live here now,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“It’s your house,” Bucky said, philosophically, sighing as he went from too hot to cooler in an instant. “Stay as long as you like.”

“ _Our_ house,” Tony corrected stubbornly. “And I couldn’t move right now if the bed were on fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Goluboi](https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=goluboi).


	12. Chapter 12

Tony had woken up in many strange and unusual places; from being arrested for sleeping mostly naked on the roof of his car (which might have been okay, if it hadn’t been in the parking lot at the time) to crammed on top of a rack of shoes in his girlfriend’s closet (he wasn’t supposed to be there and her parents had come home early), but this might have been the first time he’d ever woken up with a kitten patting gently at his cheek and _murrping_ in his ear.

He squinted at it, then lifted his head enough to look around a little. Bucky’s room, right. Bucky, next to him, still sleeping. Tony looked back at the kitten. “How did you get over here?”

Vaguely, he recalled the kitten making some truly pathetic noises at some ridiculous hour, and Bucky’s rumble as he got up to deal with it. He’d come back to bed about twenty minutes later -- Tony hadn’t quite gone all the way back to sleep -- with a report of a feeding and a use of the litter box and a ‘shove over, you’ -- before climbing back in and draping his thigh over Tony’s legs. Maybe he’d put the kitten outside the box.

Or, you know, kittens climb.

Also, apparently, trying to chew on earlobes wasn’t out of the question.

Tony twitched and grabbed the little furball. “Stop that, that’s not allowed.” He rolled over, careful not to squash the cat or -- hopefully -- wake Bucky, settling on his back. He deposited Alpine on his chest and scritched at the kitten’s ears, hoping that would suffice to make it stay put.

The kitten squinted his eyes mostly closed and started purring like a miniature chainsaw, rough, uneven, and in steadily increasing volume. Tiny claws prickled at his skin for a moment before the kitten decided Tony was as soft as he was getting, and turned in a clumsy circle before flopping over, still purring.

Tony huffed a little and kept petting -- cleaned up, the little cat’s fur was surprisingly soft for a stray’s -- and looked over at Bucky again. Yeah, so that had happened. And very impressively, too.

Under the mid-morning light, Bucky’s skin was light bronze, dotted here and there with scars. On his lower back, just over one hip, was a newer scar, still angry and red, an uneven line that showed signs of being home tended. Lean, sinewy muscle, and incredible biceps. His hair fluffed everywhere in his sleep, tangling around his jaw. 

One blue eye opened, then the other. “Hey there, you.”

Tony was aware of a somewhat ridiculously sappy smile tugging at his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “Morning.”

“No regrets,” Bucky rumbled, and Tony wasn’t sure if it was a question or a declaration. He reached out and patted Tony’s thigh under the covers, fingers tracing a line up Tony’s leg.

“None,” Tony agreed. With the hand that wasn’t currently engaged in keeping Alpine purring, he brushed some of that fluffy hair back from Bucky’s face. “Feeling okay?”

“Mmm,” Bucky said, “little sore. In a good way. You?”

“Fantastic.” Tony considered it. “Be even better if some coffee would magically appear.”

“Magic may not be possible, but coffee is manageable. You take shower, I will get breakfast and watch the baby.” He crawled out of bed and then stretched, magnificent, showing off, maybe. Bucky pulled on some clothes, boxers and that robe of his that he didn’t like to close, and then relieved Tony of one purring kitten, who squeaked indignantly until Bucky tucked him close against his chest.

“That really is unfairly adorable.” Big strong man, tiny helpless creature. It really was quite appealing. Briefly, Tony imagined Bucky holding a baby -- _Tony’s_ baby -- and it just about took his breath away entirely.

“He is very cute,” Bucky said, nuzzling the kitten and making kissy faces. Alpine immediately put two paws on Bucky’s mouth. _No kisses._ “We will be on guard and not spoil him too much, or he will take advantage of our good nature.”

“Yeah, he’s only part of the adorable here,” Tony said, smirking. He summoned enough will to sit up and throw his legs over the edge of the bed, having his own stretch while he tried to work out if he was going to borrow Bucky’s shower or throw on enough clothes to dash back to his own.

“Go, shower,” Bucky prodded. “I will make coffee and we will-- see what can be made of this tangle we are in.”

“Yeah.” Tony stood up and scooped up his clothes. He couldn’t resist crowding into Bucky’s space for a quick kiss before making his way to the bathroom.

Hot water rinsed away most of Tony’s lethargy and sleepiness, and brushing his teeth made him feel less like Alpine had climbed into his mouth and taken a nap. He shaved, then wrapped a towel around his hips and headed for his closet to get dressed.

Under literally any other circumstances in the world, his fiancée sitting on his bed, waiting for him to get out of the shower, would have been cute, or romantic, or sexy. Instead, Natasha looked very much like a cat who had gotten into the chicken coop. “Have a good time last night?” she asked brightly.

“Jesus Christ!” Tony nearly jumped out of his skin, and had to catch his towel before it fell off. “What are you doing in here?”

“I was told it is very good manners, if you must break things off, to do so in person,” she said, making a show of taking off the ring and putting it down on his bedside table. 

Tony considered it. “You think that’s the way to go? I mean, you definitely-- I’m still wearing a towel. Just a minute.” He ducked into his closet, closing the door behind him (thank god for walk-in closets) and quickly dragged on some boxer-briefs and a pair of jeans, then snagged a t-shirt. “So you break up with me, that will play better for the press than the reverse,” he continued, because he’d been thinking about this, too. “We need a way to keep you in the country, though.”

“I came here,” she said, “because I can have no children, and men in Russia, they want children of their own blood. It is a symbol of their manly sperms, or something ridiculous. I am barren, I am unwanted, unweddable. But what kind of example is this, for a child, to grow up with two parents who do not love each other? I will stay, take care of your child, on a work-visa. It will be better for the baby, yes? If they are loved, without having to worry if their parents are pretending to love them.”

Tony thought about that. “Yeah, we can spin that story. And then after some time passes, Bucky and I can come out. If he wants to.”

“You may end up with only partial custody,” Natasha said. “Sharing the burden of parenthood with Miss Bain.”

“Maybe. But if it’s shared custody then Sunset can’t demand that I pay nearly as much in child support, which is her entire angle on this. So if it comes down to that, I expect she’ll fold.” Tony pulled on his t-shirt. “Did you already talk this over with Bucky?”

“Not yet,” Natasha said. “But it is the only road forward. It will be too easy, your life is under so much scrutiny. If the press never saw us particularly affectionate with each other, they would say ‘celebrity marriage’ and move on. If they see you affectionate with Bucky-- that is too much meat for them to ignore. It would be a disaster, Miss Bain would claim full custody and would probably be given it. There would be insinuations about my relationship with my brother, and perhaps you would lose any visitation rights. This must not happen.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, I’d already figured that we were going to need to ‘break up.’ I just hadn’t worked out all the particulars.”

“I wonder how many particulars Miss Bain worked out,” Natasha said. “That she is pregnant. She is wealthy and beautiful in her own right; it was not an _accident_.”

“It definitely was not,” Tony agreed. “She’s... wealthy on paper, but cash-poor. Not a lot of her assets are liquid. So she started skanking up around me, thinking that she could get me to agree to marry her, I guess. And then when it became obvious I wasn’t going to do that...” He spread his hands. “Surprise! The condom broke.”

“She seems that she would be a poor mother, regardless of what arrangements you would come to,” Natasha said. “So now we must be sure she will do the least amount of damage. Some damage, you know, cannot be helped. It is doubtful she will be denied some visitation.”

“I have no doubt that, given custody, she’ll drop the kid on a nanny and have as little to do with them as possible,” Tony said. It was what his parents had done, more or less. “I’m not interested in denying her visitation. If she actually has an interest in the kid’s life, then I’m all for it. I’m just not willing to let her use this kid as an excuse to make me bump her allowance.”

“You are, however, _very_ interested in this child,” Natasha said. “This is good. I believe you will be a good parent.”

“I... Thank you.” Tony eyed her. “How do you feel about all this?”

“Back in Moscow, our father, our foster father, he is what you would call-- mob boss, perhaps? He had many ‘children’ and we did things for him. I read a book, once, by an Englishman, about a gang of orphan thieves. This could have been a story about us. When Ivan died, there was money, for a while. We-- there were fights, between us, and Bucky protected me, and we took our share and left. But there are people who know that we did those things. That we have those skills. I did not think it was going to be much longer before someone came looking for us.”

She gave Tony a long, steady look. “I have red in my ledger. I like to think this will help even it out.”

Tony nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. And Bucky?”

“Bucky is a good man,” Natasha said. “He believed what Ivan told him was true, for a long time. But he always, always, meant well.”

“He’s a good man.” Tony turned that over for a moment, considering what he’d want to tell his lawyers, in case someone dug up something from Natasha or Bucky’s past, and what he definitely would _not_ want to tell his lawyers, for purposes of deniability. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you’re both here.”

“We are glad, too,” Natasha said. “You are, also, a good man.”

Tony huffed. “Well, I can hope so, anyway. Come on, Bucky said he was going to make breakfast. We can eat and have coffee while we talk about our timing.” He offered her a hand.

* * *

“Tony,” Pepper said, sticking her head in the door of his office. “I have a call for you on line three; she’s called several times over the last two days and this time someone actually forwarded her on to me. She says her name is Karen Paige and she owes you a favor, something about some guy named Frank Castle, and she has information for you. Is this someone you want me to put on hold indefinitely, or make an appointment?” 

Tony saved the schematic he was working on with a wave of his hand. “Put her through,” he said. “I mean, she doesn’t really owe me that much, but it’s always nice to have members of the press who are charitably inclined. She wouldn’t be pushing that hard if it wasn’t something moderately important.” He shut down his monitor and tipped back in his chair.

“Hello,” someone said, tentatively, when the speakerphone clicked in. “Mr. Stark?”

“Ms. Paige,” Tony returned. “It’s nice to hear from you. How’s Frank doing?”

“He’s getting used to his new life,” she said, and Tony could hear the smile in her voice. “We meet up several times a month. He’s a good man. Thank you for what you did for him. That-- is not what I called about, however.”

“No, I assumed not. What’s on your mind?” Tony tipped farther back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t know any other way to pass information along to you,” she said. “I happened to be at a press conference the other day, and ran into an old colleague from _Vanity Fair_. You know Christine Everhart, right?”

“For my sins, yes.” Tony frowned. “What’s the news?”

“We spoke briefly, and then she got a text that she excused herself to answer, and-- well, if Christine had a scoop, I wanted to know what she was up to,” Karen said. “So I followed her, and-- Miss Bain, of Baintronics, she’s um-- your baby-mama, right? That’s the gossip, but I don’t know how reliable that is, but she’s in the hospital with complications, and I thought… it didn’t sound like anyone was planning to tell you.”

Tony sat straight up so fast his head spun. “Complications. Did she say what _kind_ of-- Why is Christine Everhart getting that news?” Natasha and Bucky had said the two women were working together, but Tony hadn’t been entirely certain -- for all its worldly flair, the New York social scene was oddly small, and one did tend to run into the same people over and over. But as far as he knew, the two weren’t close friends or anything, which could only mean... “Which hospital, do you know?”

“Lennox Hill,” Karen said. “I don’t know much more than that, it was all eavesdropping. But I thought you might need to know, and, well, Frank and I owe you a lot.”

“You really don’t, but I appreciate the intel, all the same.” Tony paused. “Speaking of intel, I don’t know what your beat is lately, but I’ve got some personal news I need to release in the next few days; you want in? It’d be nice to have a friendly face on the firing squad.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Karen said. “I’ve been doing think pieces for the Daily Bugle recently, but it’d be nice to do something a little lighter than the world is going to kill all the polar bears.”

“Well, this isn’t unmitigated celebration, but it’s definitely lighter than climate catastrophes.” They were going to have to have a press release about the break-up; Tony might as well control who got to put the first spin on the story.

“Well, let me know, or better yet, get in touch with Ben Urich, he controls most of my schedule,” she said. “We can either do your announcement as a press conference, or if you want to be cozy, we can settle in for a nice personal interview. That could make or break my career over the next few years, interviewing Tony Stark, up close and personal.”

Tony hummed thoughtfully. Karen Paige was probably the best chance he had at entirely sympathetic press that would tell the story they wanted told. “Let me consult with my PR people and see if I’m allowed to make it an exclusive break,” he told her. “I’ll get in touch with your office.”

“Thanks,” Karen said. “Good… luck with Miss Bain. We’ve met before, she can be a handful.”

Tony snorted. “Yeah. Thanks; I’ll need it. Talk to you soon, Ms. Paige.” He hung up, then reached for the phone controls. “Pepper. I need an appointment with PR today or tomorrow, and I need someone from Legal to meet me in five minutes on my way out the door.”

“One moment,” Pepper said, then “Jenn Walters is on her way. Did you blow something up?”

“Surprisingly, no. Sunset is in the hospital with some kind of _complications_.”

“Oh my,” Pepper said. “That-- that’s not good.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m going over there now. I want someone there who will keep me from overstepping fatally, and who knows what I’m actually entitled to, as the acknowledged father.”

“Sending her the details now, you can go, she’ll meet you, keep me in the loop,” Pepper said. “I’ve cancelled and rescheduled two of your meetings, I’ll get the other one in just a moment.”

“You’re a miracle, Pep,” Tony said gratefully. “I’ll let you know if it looks like I’m going to be there for more than an hour or so.”

“I know,” Pepper said, then added, “bring her flowers.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking that,” Tony said. “If nothing else, hospital staff is going to be more receptive to a sympathetic friend than a frothing paternity suit.”

“Exactly. I’m mapping your path from here, there’s a good flower shop just down the block, I’ll have them put something together for you in a hurry.”

“A miracle,” Tony reiterated. “Text if there’s any news I need.” He punched off the connection and then swept up his suit jacket and keys.

Jenn Walters was one of Tony’s favorites from legal. She took no shit and didn’t bother to mince words. She was also over six feet tall and looked like she could bench press the judge, and her desk, maybe at the same time. “I’m downloading legal precedents now,” she said, falling into step with him.

“Excellent,” Tony said. “Things happen. I know that. And if this is one of those things, I will be as sympathetic and helpful as I can be. But if we’ve got any cause to think she’s deliberately attempting to abort, just because she’s finally figured out I’m not going to cave...”

“At this stage of the game, it would be very uncomfortable to do so, not to mention dangerous,” Jenn said. “I’ll poke around, see if one of her nurses will talk.”

“Fantastic. I’m sure she’ll have _her_ lawyers on hand, as well -- shortly after we arrive, if not already. We may have the advantage of surprise. But I’m sure they won’t give you any undue trouble.” He flashed a shark’s grin up at Jenn, and then pointed. “There’s the florist -- give me five minutes.”

“Hopefully, it’s just precautionary, and she’s probably more scared than you are,” Jenn said. “Pregnancy can be very frightening, even when it was planned.”

“Oh, it was planned, all right,” Tony muttered. “Just not by me.” He veered off into the florist’s shop and was lavish in his appreciation for the rush job. Especially since it did not look at all rushed. He verified that they had his card on file, told them to add an additional thirty percent rush fee, and was back out on the street in less than three minutes. “Onward,” he told Jenn, pointing down the block with the flowers.

“Yes, my captain,” Jenn said, giving him a little mock salute. “We will conquer.”


	13. Chapter 13

The hospital was, like every one Tony had ever been to, clean, antiseptic, and sterile. It was a place where people spoke in hushed voices, where the miasma of illness and pain seemed to hang over everything, and where people tried very hard to hold on to hope.

In short, depressing.

Jenn disappeared almost immediately upon arrival. “I’ll go talk with billing and some of the shift nurses; text me if you need a backup.”

“I’m here to see Ms. Bain,” Tony told the woman at the reception desk. “Pregnancy complications, so probably in Obstetrics somewhere?”

“ID please,” the receptionist asked, “and we’ll need a signature in the log.” She was typing rapidly into a computer.

Tony resisted the urge to roll his eyes and turned over the required information, signed where he was told to sign.

She ran his ID through a scanner and made a sticker for him, with his picture on it. She stuck a bright pink circle on it. “She’s in 307, please stop by the nurse's station when you arrive and they’ll see if your patient is up for visitors.”

“Got it,” Tony said. He smiled charmingly for the receptionist and then strode past the desk toward the elevator bank. The nurse’s station was easy to find, since it was situated right in front of him when the elevator doors opened again. They didn’t want anyone sneaking past, he guessed. “I’m here to visit Sunset Bain, room 307,” he told the nurse on duty.

The nurse looked up, “Name--oh, Mr. _Stark_ ,” she said, suddenly fluttering. “I’ll… I’ll see if she’s feeling up to it, poor dear. You just have a seat and we’ll be right back in a jiffy.”

Tony produced another winning smile, sympathetic. “It’s really too bad she was hit with this...” He waved a hand. “I forget the technical term.”

“Preeclampsia,” the nurse said, and then shooed him gently toward a chair. She pushed away from her desk and walked off toward what Tony presumed was the actual ward, on the other side of a door that she swiped through. Hospitals were always stepping up security, which on the one hand, good, on the other hand, prevented him from just walking in to see Sunset, whether she was feeling up to it or not.

Her response to the visitation request would probably tell him something about her state of mind. In the meanwhile, he pulled out his phone and looked up _preeclampsia_ , though it took him a couple of attempts to guess at the spelling close enough for Google to figure out what he wanted.

He skimmed a quick definition and then a somewhat more detailed description. It did not sound like the sort of thing that could be faked, or forced. It was possible, he had to acknowledge, that Sunset didn’t want to be here any more than he did.

“She’ll see you now,” the nurse came back to tell him. “Come this way.”

Yeah. If she was deliberately interfering with the pregnancy, she probably wouldn’t have agreed to see him. Tony followed the nurse through the doors and a short way down the hall to a hospital room.

“Sunset,” he said as he slipped through the doorway. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Tony,” she said, struggling to sit up. “I didn’t think it was really you. I look a fright.” She wasn’t lying about that; her normally sleek hair was dull, almost lifeless and very oily around her scalp, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup; her skin pale, and her cheeks seemed somehow less prominent than normal. She was wearing what looked like an old favorite nightgown, however, a threadbare long tee shirt that said _Some of You Make it Really Difficult to Like You_ in tattered letters.

“I think you’re allowed not to be press-ready in the hospital, Sun.” He set the flowers on the little rolling table by her bed, and perched on the visitor’s chair that he could tell just from looking was going to be hideously uncomfortable. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and she blinked a few times, looking steadily at the wall instead of at him. “I-- came in to get the scans done, and they made me pee in a cup, which, you know, I have spent more time in the bathroom with fluid coming out one end or the other during the last six months to last me a lifetime, no big deal. They ran some tests on it, and my kidneys are _failing_ , Tony.”

“Jesus. Is there-- What are they doing about it?” Sunset could be a despicable person, but Tony didn’t actually wish her any ill.

She sniffled. Tony had seen her _pretend_ to cry before, and it was delicate and graceful and not the least bit messy, which was not what was happening now. The tears started and her nose went pink and her face was blotchy. “We’re discussing how long we can afford to wait,” she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “To deliver the baby. She’ll be pre-term. How long we can wait… before she can breathe, or I die, whichever comes first.” She gave an utterly helpless little laugh.

“Shit.” Tony didn’t even think about it; he reached out and took Sunset’s hand. “That’s terrifying. You’re not going through this _alone_ , are you? Tell me that at least... At least Christine is coming around to see you.”

Sunset stiffened a little. “You know about Chris?”

“You had her stalking me,” Tony pointed out, as gently as he knew how. “She tried to set me up for pictures of me ‘cheating’ on Natalia.” He put finger-quotes around the word, knowing it would annoy Sunset. “I have no idea how she convinced Ms. Longfellow to play along, but it wasn’t hard to put together.”

“She was one of my sorority sisters,” Sunset explained. “She’s-- I don’t know, one of the few people who really knows me, and still likes me anyway.”

“And she’d love to see me eat dirt,” Tony said drily. He shook his head. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

“Well, you have to admit,” Sunset said, “you were kind of an asshole to her.” She grimaced a bit and put her hand on her stomach. “Here, give me--” She blinked, as if realizing suddenly that she already had a hold of his hand, and pressed it to her stomach. “She keeps kicking me.”

“Yeah, but that was _years_ ago. You’d think she--” Tony broke off as Sunset’s skin jumped and fluttered under his hand. “Oh. That’s... That’s something.” Another kick, like the baby was annoyed that his hand was in her way and was trying to dislodge him. “Does it hurt?”

“Not exactly, no,” Sunset said. “Unless she’s kicking my bladder.” She blew out a breath and sat all the way up straight. “I’ll tell you one thing, no one ever told me how much my back would hurt, carrying her around.” 

Tony decided not to mention that the discomfort was entirely Sunset’s own doing. He hummed in noncommittal sympathy. “Not much I can do about that, I’m afraid. I’ll have to run it through my legal people, but I’m willing to cover any reasonable and related medical costs. She’s mine, too.”

“Well, I suppose she is,” Sunset said. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then, “Um. We did do all the scans and all. She-- she is a girl. Did you have any ideas on names?”

That sounded like an olive branch. “I always thought,” Tony said, looking at the swell of Sunset’s belly, “that if I had a daughter, I might call her Maria, after my mother. What thoughts did you have?”

“I have an annoying cousin named Maria,” Sunset said, making a face. “And she’d just think I named a baby that to annoy her. Or to honor her. Can’t decide what would make for less pleasant family gatherings. What about Whitney?”

It was Tony’s turn to grimace. “I had a girlfriend named Whitney, once. She was crazy. Like, _seriously_ disturbed. Threw a knife at my head, actually.” He pulled out his phone and shot Bucky a text. _Baby girl. Names?_ He considered it, then sent the same text to Natasha.

“Well, I’m nixing anything that’s spelled weird, no McKayleighs with an ei or Jhaydean with an h. That’s just asking for trouble.”

“That’s fair,” Tony agreed. “What about Ana?” If he couldn’t honor the woman who’d borne him, maybe he could honor the one who’d raised him.

Tony’s phone buzzed. Bucky had sent a whole list: _Kobik, Svetlana, Rebecca, Rachel, Winnifred, Yelena, Morgan, Ksenia, Polina, Annika, and Duscha_.

“Kobik?” he repeated aloud. “What the heck kind of name is that? And how do you even _pronounce_ this--” He shook his head and texted back, _All at once? It would take a year to fill out the paperwork ;)_

He mentally vetoed a few and listed the rest off for Sunset’s consideration. “Svetlana, Rebecca, Rachel, Morgan, Annika.”

“This from your little matryoshka?” Sunset asked. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Morgan? Like, the horse? I mean, it’s kinda cute. Gender neutral, too, that’s a bonus.”

“Her brother, actually,” Tony said. “Gender-neutral is a bonus?” He considered, then shrugged. “I’m not opposed.”

“For a woman, especially if she ends up taking over Stark Industries, yes, gender neutral is a bonus,” Sunset said.

Tony considered the Board of Directors, which was not _entirely_ white and male, but certainly leaned heavily in that direction. “Fair point. Middle name? Names?”

“My mother’s name was Celeste. If you wanted to go that route, there’s no reason why she couldn’t have two middle names. Morgan Celeste Maria?”

“Morgan Celeste Maria,” Tony said thoughtfully. “I kind of like it.” _Morgan Celeste Maria Stark_ , if Tony got primary custody. He texted it to Bucky and Natasha. Then added, _She may be born sooner than expected. Will fill you in when I get home._

“Well, this was a nice peaceful visit,” Sunset said. “It’s too bad we couldn’t make a go of it. We’re more alike than you realize. It could have been very, very good. And a lot of fun.”

“I think that’s why we wouldn’t have worked,” Tony said carefully, though personally he didn’t think he and Sunset were very much alike at all. “It was fun while it lasted.”

“If you unblock me on your phone, I’ll text you,” Sunset said. “In case anything else goes wrong.” 

Tony nodded and flipped into his blocked numbers list. “Let me know if you need anything,” he said, and glanced up at her. “I never wanted it to end like this.”

“No,” Sunset said. “It wasn’t my plan, either. She just… didn’t seem very real. Up until she was. I won’t say I’m sorry; I wouldn’t know what to do with your forgiveness if I had it. But maybe we can start over.”

“Maybe,” Tony agreed. “For her sake.”

Sunset looked at him for a long moment, then shifted in her bed. “Turn the lights off on your way out. I’m tired.”

A dismissal if he’d ever heard one. Tony rolled his eyes a little, but still -- she was the one in the hospital bed with her life hanging in the balance, so. “Keep in touch, Sunset.” He hesitated awkwardly, then turned for the door, flipping the light switch as he reached it. Guess he'd have to tell Jenn to stand down. Mostly.

“See you around, Tony,” she said.

* * *

Even without the official news being released, it hadn’t taken long for rumor to get around that Natasha and Tony were no longer a couple.

It was the coffee shop girl who first drew Bucky’s attention to it, although she was, in fact, trying to get Tony’s attention. She wrote her phone number, a bunch of little hearts, and a “I love babies” on his coffee cup instead of his name.

Bucky wasn’t quite sure what to do with that, but he turned the cup’s writing away from Tony when he sat it down.

Which didn’t stop Tony from seeing it. Tony rolled his eyes. “I used to think this crap would taper off as I got older, but I think they’re just getting more persistent.”

“Do you-- ever call?” Bucky wondered. He eyed the girl at the counter with a slight amount of hostility. She wasn’t even looking at him, trying to take subtle photos of herself with Tony in the background.

“God, no.” Tony snorted and took a gulp of the coffee. “If I was going to pick up some random person off the street, it would at least be someone who was able to talk to me with actual words.” He glanced over. “And for the record, I’m not in the market for any random pickups.”

Bucky sat back in his chair and stared at the girl until she felt the weight of it and hastily seemed to remember she had a job. "Tzar of America. Everyone wants a piece of you for their personal collection."

Tony snorted. “Apparently. Alas, I am not collectible.”

“Perhaps not,” Bucky agreed, then glanced at the rack of magazines for sale near one side of the shop. “But, apparently, available.” He stood, plucked a magazine. Where the hell had they gotten this picture of Natasha, because it sure as hell wasn’t taken since they arrived. That was from the riots after the election last summer. They’d done a pretty good job of doctoring the photo, though; Natasha looked like she was in the streets in front of Tony’s building, throwing something.

He put the magazine down in front of Tony.

Tony blinked at it, pulled the magazine closer and skimmed the headlines. “Huh. I thought we were going to get out ahead of it, but I guess not.” He looked up at Bucky. “Does it bother you?”

“Should it not?” Bucky wondered. “You are a person, you-- don’t deserve to be lied about this way. Everyone thinking they know who you are, when they don’t know you at all.” 

The girl at the coffee counter was staring again. “And that. Bothers me. Yes.”

Tony’s mouth curved wryly. “Yeah, okay, I always forget-- I’ve been in papers since I was six years old. I’m pretty used to being talked about like some kind of fairground prize. You learn to let it roll off.” He shrugged. “Don’t tell me they don’t have celebrity gossip in Russia.”

Bucky snorted. “Have you read our newspapers? They sometimes make your Fox News look reasonable and well-informed. This is-- it’s _you_. It is personal.” Bucky slumped in his seat, scowling and knowing he was all but throwing a tantrum like a child. It wasn’t like he didn’t know, because even in Moscow, he had known who Tony Stark was. Celebrity gossip. It hadn’t seemed particularly important.

Tony looked at him seriously for a long moment. “I have to tell you, it doesn’t really get any better. In fact, it’ll probably get worse for a bit, when the news spreads. You wouldn’t be the first person to back out of a celebrity relationship because the press and the fans are too much, if you don’t think you can handle it. Just... I’d appreciate some warning, if that’s what’s going to happen.” He was looking past Bucky, over Bucky’s shoulder at the street outside, his hands curling around his coffee cup as if for warmth.

 _What has the world done to this man?_ Bucky stared into the bottom of his own cup. And considered the opposite end of the spectrum; how many people had befriended Tony, just because he was Tony, because they wanted the fans and the press and the money? “How many times?”

Tony looked at him directly, at that, frowning. “How many times, what?”

“Have you lost a friend, a lover, someone you care about-- because of this?”

“Ah.” Tony took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “A few. I spent a pretty significant portion of my twenties pretty deliberately _not_ seeking any sustained relationships, in part to avoid the issue. But when I was younger... A few times. Some thought they wouldn’t care, but did. One or two who actively sought it out and then realized it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. When I realized I couldn’t actually party my way through life and started considering serious relationships again, I stuck pretty closely to other high-profile people. At least they know what they’re getting into with the publicity.” He sighed. “I didn’t think to warn you. Natalia already had a good grip on it, so I guess I thought...” He shrugged.

“She told me,” Bucky admitted. “I didn’t listen. I was looking at what we were leaving behind, I thought-- what could be worse? Tony--” He waited until Tony was actually looking at him, read every bit of carefully guarded hurt on his face. 

“They didn’t deserve you,” he said. “I cannot promise I will handle it _well_ , or always. But I will handle it.”

There was a spark in Tony’s eyes at that, a cautious hope. “Just... Promise you’ll remember that it’s _not me_. I don’t ask for it. I don’t want it. I can’t control it. That’s the rock that always seems to sink the ship -- they think if I just _say_ , please stop; I don’t like this, then people will stop it.” He scoffed and tossed back the last swallow of his coffee. “Might as well ask the wind to stop blowing.”

“Stories sell newspapers,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Even in Moscow. They don’t deserve you.” Any of them, not the reporters with their clever lies or the fans with their not-subtle adoration. Certainly not Bain, who tried to trap him into marriage, or Everhart who was seeking some ridiculous revenge.

Tony smiled at that, and his hand made a little abortive twitch, as if he meant to reach across the table to take Bucky’s hand, but restrained himself at the last instant. “I’m not sure how I deserve _you_ ,” he murmured. “But I’ll be sure to introduce you to my PR team. They can assign someone to you to get you up to speed on what _you_ can expect, when -- if -- you decide to go public.”

Bucky felt his resolve strengthen around him. “ _When_. We will do this together. I am not going to let you stand up there and protect my family and face it _alone_.”

Tony’s smile widened a little. “In your own time,” he insisted. “You didn’t want the cat’s carrier to be blue. This will be... much more obvious, when it happens.”

“When I was a boy, Ivan, our foster father, he got into some trouble with a rival gang,” Bucky said. “In the mess that happened, one of the enforcers, they cut off two of his fingers, so he cannot pull the trigger anymore. Ivan learns to shoot left handed, better than he ever did right handed. But, he would also swear and curse and yell when he stubbed his toe. Because he got used to those missing fingers, but the new pain, that was always worse. We will get it out of the way now.”

Tony’s eyebrows went up, and then he shook his head with a huff of a laugh. “Your bravery constantly surprises me.”

Bucky shrugged, a little self-conscious. “We ran away from our troubles in Moscow, and still, we have troubles. I am done running.”

Tony nodded as if that made sense. “All right.” He grinned, sharks-tooth sharp. “Let the paparazzi do their worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The riots after the election](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2019_Moscow_protests).


	14. Chapter 14

Karen Paige walked into the room like she owned it, despite it being one of the rooms in the Stark Mansion. The PR committee had unilaterally advised against holding the interview in Tony’s penthouse, where he lived and worked. The Stark Mansion was well kept, staffed, and sometimes rented out for big parties, but Tony didn’t personally visit much.

It did, however, make a scenic backdrop and set the stage to remind people exactly who Tony Stark was; not necessarily _playboy_ and _genius_ , but the billionaire philanthropist part. The pale yellow and cream room had been Maria Stark’s piano room, even though Tony had moved the Steinway to the penthouse several years ago. He rarely played it, but he did like to look at it, from time to time, and remember when Maria was still alive, and would play.

It was a room that had special meaning to him, and would -- according to his PR team -- lend just the right amount of weight to the interview. This was about _family_.

Accordingly, he’d moved portraits of his parents into the room -- they didn’t _quite_ match, but 99% of the people watching wouldn’t spot that. And they’d be in the background, anyway. The Stark ancestors, looking on approvingly.

Tony stood back and watched as Karen looked over the room and directed her camera crew where to set up, and let his PR team freshen his makeup, toning down the dark circles under his eyes and giving him a little youthful color. Next to him, Natasha stood serenely, outwardly poised. Bucky lurked behind them, a little less calm. Tony let Karen’s crew pin a mike to his collar, and then turned to smile at Karen. “Where do you want us, Ms. Paige?”

Karen gave him a sweet smile; she always looked so angelic, it was sometimes hard to remember that she was, in fact, a very good investigative reporter. “Why don’t you all pretend I’m not here for a moment, and sit how you would, if you were just-- home for the evening after going out. I know this isn’t where you’re used to being, but I’ll know better how to package the story if I see how you all relate to each other.”

“I feel like one of your department store displays,” Bucky said, letting his accent be ridiculously thick, like something out of a bad spy movie, or a cartoon about a moose and a squirrel. 

Tony chuckled. “It’s not an entirely inaccurate comparison,” he admitted. He looked around the room and made his way to the long couch. “Come on, come sit with me,” he invited, and sprawled into the corner, camera-relaxed.

Natasha shook her head, sat down opposite Tony, kicked off her shoes and put her bare feet up on the sofa, not tucking her toes under Tony’s thigh, but close enough that it could happen. If she were cold. Or reading a book. 

Bucky, on the other hand, sat on the floor, between them, leaning his back against one of Tony’s legs. Despite the fact that they were, in fact, on display, Tony felt it could have just as easily been any night when the three of them would watch movies, catching up on American culture, while Tony would poke his phone or make notes on his laptop, dividing his attention. 

He glanced up at Karen. “This is pretty natural,” he said. “Good?”

“You all look very comfortable with each other,” Karen said. She tugged one of the more comfortable chairs over. “So, I want you to just relax, and we’ll talk. I can always edit the shit out of it later, so feel free to just say whatever springs to mind.”

“Well, let’s start with the big kicker,” Tony said easily, “and then you can steer from there. Natalia and I will not be getting married, after all.”

“This was my decision,” Natasha said. “For many years, I want a family, a child, but-- it is not going to happen. So, why not marry a man who needs a wife, a mother? But, while I like Tony very much-- there is no separating the roles. Tony needs a supportive spouse, his child needs a loving mother. I could not play both parts.”

“We talked it over quite a lot,” Tony put in. “We’ve known each other, been good friends online, for quite some time. We thought we could make a go of it. But once we met in person, that spark just wasn’t there. And we didn’t want to raise a child with a lie. It would be irresponsible and, frankly, damaging to the child’s mental health. It’s better this way, we feel.”

“That’s remarkably mature of you both,” Karen said. “And to be frank, responsibility is not a word often linked with Tony Stark.”

Bucky’s weight shifted against Tony’s leg. “Tony is very responsible,” he growled. “He does so much, and people just forget about that to gossip about him. I think this says more about the gossips than it does about Tony.”

Tony couldn’t help a fond little smile as he glanced down at Bucky. “James wasn’t around for some of my youthful exploits,” he said lightly. “I’m aware that the reputation lingers in certain circles. But I’ve worked hard to build on my father’s legacy at Stark Industries, and -- well, impending parenthood changes a person.”

“That has been a subject of speculation,” Karen said. “Tell me, you grew up in the spotlight of course, heir of your father’s fortune and company, and are a genius inventor in your own right. Do you think you’ll do things differently than your father did, in regards to raising a child?”

Tony made his smile freeze in place. Howard’s failings as a father were not well-known, and the public, by and large, didn’t like to hear anything negative about the man. “There are some changes in approach, certainly. Parenting as a whole is different these days, I think, thanks to advances in understanding child development and in technology. But I’m sure Howard’s legacy will remain a role model for me as I make my way forward.” As an example of what _not_ to do, he thought, but didn’t say.

“So what happens now?” Karen wondered. “The Romanoffs are not returning home--”

“This is our home, now,” Bucky said, firmly.

“Yes,” Tony agreed. “Natalia and I may have decided that we wouldn’t make a very good couple, but we do still have a firm friendship to build upon, and James and I have become quite close since their arrival, as well. I have extended my invitation to them both, for them to stay. They’re both enormously skilled and talented people, in multiple arenas, and I’m sure you’re aware that SI is always looking for good people.”

“I do believe I’ve heard that rumor,” Karen said. “As well as the flip side of that coin; Stark Industries jobs are highly sought after, the world over. Thousands of qualified people apply for each and every opening, both for the prestige of working under Stark Industries letterhead, and for the highly competitive salary and benefits. I heard you’ve infuriated Washington again, since they continually push to keep the minimum wage down, stating that $15 per hour would bankrupt businesses.”

Tony mock-sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you there, Karen. I’m sure we’d all appreciate it if Washington would pay attention to the numerous studies and examples they’ve been presented with. I grant that it’s harder for small businesses, with a higher wage, but I’ve been fighting my own Board of Directors on this for years. What I’ve found is that employees who aren’t constantly struggling to make ends meet, who aren’t giving themselves ulcers from the constant stress of wondering where their next meal or rent payment is coming from, work harder and more productively. They’re more willing to step up when an extra boost is needed, they take less sick time, and they’re much less likely to jump ship for the next company who’s willing to pony up a five percent salary bump, which means we spend less time and resources onboarding and bringing new hires up to speed. I honestly think paying a living wage has helped our bottom line.”

Karen nodded, made a few notes. Probably more for show than anything, since the whole interview was being recorded. “Well, we all know about Tony Stark, tell us about James Romanoff. Your plans and dreams, what your parents were like. How you’re fitting in with the Stark lifestyle.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted. “My parents died when I was very young, and I don’t remember them particularly well. With no immediate family, I was fostered out to Ivan, where I met Natasha, year or two after I arrived. And others. We had a larger family, once. We’ve lost touch with Yelena and RJ. But Natasha and I have stuck together. Family is important.”

Natasha nodded solemnly. “It is the most important thing, for us. We are very excited and happy to expand our family to include Tony.”

“Well, your family is just expanding in all directions, I see, Tony,” Karen said. “Feeling confident? Ready to figure out the _actual_ oldest job in the world?”

“Not confident at all,” Tony said, putting on his most charming boyish grin. “I mean, anyone who _is_ , probably has no idea at all what they’re in for. But I have faith that we’ll all figure it out, together. That’s what family is, right?”

“We certainly think so,” Karen said. She tapped her chin with her pen a few times, asked Natasha a few questions about how she was enjoying the shopping; she’d been seen several times in various shops. What designers she felt prettiest in. “Sorry for the rabbit food questions, but it’s what everyone wants to know.”

“What I do know?” Natasha asked, leaning forward, “is that America has truly horrible vodka.”

Tony laughed. “That was one of the first things she said to me when she got here,” he confided. “I might have to open a factory or an office in Poland just to keep her in drinks.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t confess to liking Absolute Marshmallow flavor,” Karen said, giving Natasha a wink.

Natasha said something in Russian that, to Tony, had the same tone as “Father forgive us our sins.”

Bucky, on the other hand, perked up a little. “What do you do to vodka to make it taste like _marshmallow_?”

“They _poison_ it,” Natasha hissed. “You will not drink this, you will not talk about this, you will not bring it into our home.”

“Mostly, add sugar,” Tony told Bucky, highly amused. “And vanilla.”

“I like a woman who takes her drinking seriously,” Karen said, sitting back and, in fact, eyeing Natasha with interest. “Maybe we should go out, just us girls.”

Natasha tipped her head for a moment, considering it. “Yes. It would be good to have a friend.”

“Well, now we’re in trouble,” Tony said, mock-soberly, because he knew the sort of reactions that would play well on camera.

“That wouldn’t be anything new,” Karen said, and Bucky, the traitor, laughed hard enough that he almost fell over.

Tony pretended to be annoyed and exasperated, but he couldn’t quite keep the smile from his face. That was all right. Let the audience see them all joking and playing together. Like a family should.

Karen was good; made everyone comfortable talking to her, and around her. She’d managed to turn the country’s opinion around on Frank Castle, so Tony knew she was good. Something about her; unlike a lot of the other reporters he’d met who demanded and pushed and pried and tried to trip people up, she just invited confidence.

That made her more dangerous, perhaps. 

But she seemed to have their best interests in mind, steering clear of too many controversial subjects, keeping it light. She even coaxed Bucky into telling a few of his childhood adventures -- Tony rather suspected they were more than somewhat exaggerated, and polished over some of the rougher, less legal spots.

All in all, he thought they’d put on a good show. Friendly and close -- but not in a romantic way. The kind of people who might be trusted with a child.

Finally, Karen nodded. “I think that will just about cover it,” she said. “And because I like you, I’ll let you see the copy before it goes to the presses. No surprises. And unlike some of my other colleagues, I do take my reporter hat off when I’m out with friends, so if you would, in fact, like to join me sometime for a girl’s night that will not end up in the paper, please let me know.”

“Well,” Tony joked, “not _your_ paper, anyway.” He grinned and nudged Natasha’s foot where it still rested near his thigh. “You should,” he said. “Karen’s good people.” And it couldn’t hurt to have their sympathetic reporter become even moreso. But that sort of calculation was the curse of growing up in the public eye. Really, Natasha could just use a friend.

“Then we will do this,” Natasha said. “I am at your command, as my schedule is a bit more flexible.”

“Great,” Karen said, and she shook hands all the way around. “Thanks, so much. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you all.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had an interview that was so easy,” Tony told her. “I appreciate it.”

“I am very, very good at my job,” Karen said. 

“And you like people,” Bucky added, “which makes you different.”

“I think everyone deserves a chance to tell their side of the story,” Karen said.

* * *

Bucky didn’t consider himself a religious person; he’d never gone to church as far as he knew, and what little he knew about the views of Christians came from American movies with badly done voice-overs.

But he was almost convinced that he’d died and gone to heaven.

Taking advantage of having the house to themselves while Natasha went out to drink and club and party with Karen and some of Karen’s friends, they’d made very slow, deliberate love, starting almost as soon as Natasha was out the door.

After that, Tony called for some delivery food, and they watched about half of a bad movie while eating relatively decent Indian food, and then Tony had started teasing and they’d ended up on the floor, having sex again.

But they’d managed to clean up most of the mess -- spilled curry stain not withstanding -- and were dressed and just snuggling, when Tower security buzzed them.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony looked up with a blink, then unfolded himself from Bucky’s arms and made his way to the intercom. “Evening, David. What’s up?”

“You might want to come downstairs and rescue Miss Romanoff,” David said, tone a little tense.

Bucky sat up. “From what?” He couldn’t imagine much that his sister couldn’t handle, except for extreme cases, like rampaging velociraptors.

“She-- is very inebriated,” David said. 

“‘M not!” Bucky could hear her in the background, and it sounded very much like she just swatted someone with her purse.

Tony looked like he was trying to swallow a laugh. “We’ll be right down,” he promised. He flicked the intercom off and then raised his eyebrows at Bucky. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Natasha so much as tipsy,” he admitted. “What are we in for, here?”

Bucky let his eyes get huge and round. “I have no idea. I didn’t think she could _get_ drunk.”

Tony rolled his eyes at Bucky and stuffed his feet into some slippers. “I’ll have to find out what she and Karen were drinking,” he mused.

“Everything, more than likely.” Bucky didn’t bother with shoes, it was New York, not Siberia. He’d be fine. Out of respect for Tony’s sensibilities, he did tie the robe closed, however.

Tony’s sensibilities, of course, being, “stop walking around half naked all the time, you’re giving me ideas over my breakfast.”

Bucky couldn’t really help but let Tony pull ahead of him to lead the way to the elevator, just so he could watch Tony’s ass. There was a slight hitch in Tony’s step that Bucky couldn’t feel the least bit sorry for.

“At least it didn’t sound like she was violent or difficult,” Tony mused as the elevator doors closed.

“Natasha is always violent and difficult,” Bucky mused. “How can you tell the difference?”

Tony laughed. “Well, David didn’t say anything about having had to restrain her, so...”

Bucky didn’t bother to mention that he’d like to see David _try_. Tony paid good money for his security employees, and good benefits, and it would be a shame if they had to use them because Natasha was feeling ornery. “Let us go rescue them before she decides that she does need to be restrained.”

“Indeed.” When the elevator doors opened, Tony swept out in full show mode, grinning and sweeping his hands expansively as he talked. “David? Where are you and Miss Ro--” He paused at the side of the security desk, leaning over to look down.

Natasha and -- Bucky assumed -- David were sitting on the floor there. Natasha had one of David’s hands in her own and was examining it closely, explaining -- in Russian -- what colors of nail polish would look best on him.

“Natalia?” Tony said.

“Tony!” Natasha squealed, letting go of David’s wrist and making grabby hands in Tony’s direction. “I am very happy to see you.”

Tony smiled indulgently down at her. “I’m happy to see you, too. Did you have a nice time with Karen?” He offered her a hand. “Come on, let’s go home.”

“I had a very good time,” she said, nodding her head slowly. “Did you know one of her friends is _blind_? And yet-- he is very, very good at martial arts.”

“I did not know that,” Tony said gamely, tugging her to her feet. “Were you brawling in the clubs?”

“Only a little bit,” Natasha promised. “Someone tried to put something in Karen’s drink. Matt broke his wrist for him. He is very, very good. Also, a good dancer. And handsome, you would not believe how handsome he is.”

Tony shot a look at Bucky as he got Natasha more or less upright. “Thanks for keeping her company, David,” he told the security guard as he slung Natasha’s arm over his shoulders.

David grinned as he stood up to resume his post. “Thanks for the assist, Mr. Stark.”

Bucky took her other side, just in case she started leaning. Accidentally, or on purpose, because Natasha could be an asshole sometimes, just for the fun of it. He wouldn’t put it past her to try to fall down just for the sake of knocking them all over. “Where are your shoes?”

“Uh, I gave them to a man,” she said. “On the street corner, he asked me for money, but I didn’t have any.”

Tony groaned and laughed at the same time. “I’m sure all the other homeless people will be very envious of his Jimmy Choos,” he said.

“It’s a wonder you still have your purse,” Bucky observed. “When was the last time you were drunk?”

Natasha put one finger in her mouth, like she was trying to fish out the words. “Ten… ten minutes ago, I was _more_ drunker.”

“I can hardly fathom,” Bucky said.

Tony was all the way to cackling, but at least they’d made it to the elevator. “Come on, Cinderella,” he said, maneuvering them all through the doors. “Your garret awaits.” He huffed. “I used to be in her place,” he told Bucky.

“Giving your shoes away and gushing about some cute blind man?”

“Well, maybe not those _precise_ circumstances.”

“He isn’t cute,” Natasha said. “He is _handsome_. They are different.”

Bucky pushed the button and Natasha all but fell on him. He caught her. “Easy there, killer,” he said. Then, “Why do you smell like _marshmallows_?”


	15. Chapter 15

Tony’s phone buzzed impatiently in his pocket.

He tried ignoring it, but it kept going. Keeping his eyes fastened on the technical presentation on the screen in front of him, he fished the phone slowly, surreptitiously, out of his pocket. When the presenter paused to answer a question, he glanced down at the screen.

_You’re going to be a father soon._

_Decided to induce._

_Two hours._

_I’d like to know you’re paying attention._

“Shit,” Tony said aloud, and everyone turned to look at him. He swept his tablet into his briefcase and stood up. “My daughter’s on the way,” he excused himself. “I’m needed at the hospital.” He pointed at the presenter. “Email me your slides, I promise I will look them over as soon as I have a chance. Pep--” He turned toward her, but she was already holding up his jacket for him.

“Go.”

He went. _On my way right now,_ he texted Sunset from the elevator. And then from the car, he texted Bucky and Natasha. _Baby on the way. Omw to hospital. Not sure when I’ll be home._

Natasha: _May delivery be swift and free from pain._

Bucky: _Miss you already. Hope goes well._

Sunset: _Drive faster._

Tony had been to the hospital several times to sit with Sunset, enough to be resigned to the fact that signing in at the registration desk was both routine and _unbearably_ slow. He all but ran for the stairs as soon as he’d gotten his ID back -- Sunset was only three floors up, and the elevator was glacial.

He burst into the obstetrics ward, feeling a little wild around the eyes, probably. “Sunset?”

“Glad you could join the party,” she said. “They’re waiting a bit, for my contractions to get closer, then--” She made a face. “This is not fun.”

“As advertised,” Tony said. “You’re at -- what, thirty-two weeks? That’s not full term, but there’s a pretty solid chance for her, right?”

“Her lungs will be fully formed,” the nurse said, looking over from where she was reading numbers off the machines around Sunset. “That’s really the most important thing. Breathing.”

“Okay,” Tony said. “Okay. What... What do I do?”

“You’re Dad?” the nurse asked. “Great, stand or sit over here, and stay out of the way. You’re moral support for all the hard work.”

“Right.” Tony moved out of the way. “I... am not great at not doing anything.”

“Fine,” Sunset said. “You can sit here and design a better layout for giving birth that doesn’t involve me laying on my back with my legs wide open for the convenience of some _doctor_ who doesn’t want to get a crick in his neck.”

Tony eyed the birthing bed-slash-table. It seemed pretty uncomfortable. And awkward. And wouldn’t having the mother more upright let gravity help with the whole process? It seemed like that would be useful. He pulled his tablet out and flipped to a sketch app.

“Always, mom knows,” the nurse said, patting Sunset’s hand. “You’ve got your man in line.” She did a few other things, then left the room.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell her you’re not mine,” Sunset said, watching her leave.

“Less hassle,” Tony agreed absently. What if the bed itself had a hydraulic lift...? No, wait, two lifts, to control the head and foot separately. “Am I supposed to tell you to breathe or something? Do women in labor forget to do that?”

“Sometimes,” Sunset said, aimlessly. “Especially when you’re supposed to be pushing, it’s easier to bear down while you’re holding your breath. I think. I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention at the class.”

Tony glanced up at her. “Why would you go to a class and then not pay attention?”

Sunset snorted, then gasped, making a face. It passed in a moment, however. “When did _you_ ever pay attention in class, Tony?”

“Whenever the teacher knew something I didn’t,” Tony shot back. Which, to be fair, was not very often. “Anyway, I had to go to class to graduate. You did not have to go to birthing class. What were they going to do, refuse to let you have the baby?”

“It was _boring_ ,” Sunset said. “And she wrapped everything up in terms of family and mommy and daddy and raising the kid according to god. If there was useful information in there, I missed it. Getting the stink eye after I said I was single with no intentions of getting married. The doctor recommended I go.”

“Well, that sucks. Single parenting is a perfectly viable option these days.”

“It’s a theory, at any rate,” Sunset said. She made a face again, grimacing. “How long was that--”

“I wasn’t timing it,” Tony admitted. “Was I supposed to be? It wasn’t very long.”

“It’s supposed to tell me how long until she gets here, the shorter the time between contractions, the sooner she’ll be ready to pop out. Honestly, I think we should be able to lay eggs, that seems less work all the way around. And I could paint it or something while I waited.”

“I’m trying to imagine you staying put long enough to hatch an egg,” Tony said. “Imagination is failing me.”

“I take it back,” Sunset said. “We would never have made a go of it. You’re much too annoying.” But she was smiling when she said it.

Labor, Tony concluded several hours later, was mostly just tedious and boring. At least on his end of things. “I don’t see why we can’t just have a little montage of moments and then skip to the big finish,” he complained at one point, which made Sunset throw her pillow at his head. And then make him fetch it back for her.

“How is this so hard,” Sunset complained. “She’s a preemie, she’s supposed to be _tiny_.”

But when it was over, the baby was weighed in at just over four pounds, a little more than two-thirds what was considered a normal birth weight. Tony had to get gowned up and put a mask on and wear gloves, which seemed unfair, since they’d just plonked the baby down on Sunset’s chest for a few minutes.

“Just for a moment, and then she needs to head over to the NICU,” the nurse said, and placed something much, much smaller than a breadbox in Tony’s arms.

It was like holding a kitten, maybe. Or a very fragile circuit assembly. Tony’s hands cupped around the tiny little bundle and he pulled Morgan close against his chest protectively. “Hi there. I’m your dad.” He felt a little stupid saying it. Maybe he should’ve put some thought into what his first words were going to be to his daughter. Probably it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to remember. He couldn’t quite take his eyes off her minuscule little face.

“Sorry, could you...” He nodded toward his phone, on the table. “Please?”

It took the nurse a bit to get his phone and take a few pictures… “All right, Dad, we need her back now so she can be checked in.”

Tony didn’t want to give her back up. The nurse was smiling at him, sympathetic but firm. “How long until I can see her again? How long until she can come home?”

“Eight weeks, until she’s fully grown,” the nurse said. “Barring other complications. But you can come visit her in the NICU -- there are a lot of family hours.”

Eight _weeks?_ That was almost two whole _months_. Tony wanted to protest, but he bit his tongue and made a mental note to get the precise listing of family hours and who was allowed in the ward with the babies and under what rules, so he could maximize his time with her. He could build an algorithm, probably, that would tell him exactly how best to do that without entirely neglecting his work or-- He grabbed for his phone and sent the three best pictures to Bucky and Nat. _Meet Morgan_.

Bucky: _she could ride the cat in a few months._

Natasha: _Quite lovely._

Tony looked at the clock and winced, subtly warmed that his family had waited up so late for news. He glanced over at Sunset. “Do you, ah. Need anything?” He couldn’t just _walk away_ , could he?

“A shower, some coffee, and a nap,” Sunset said. “Also, you’re supposed to buy me a pretty piece of jewelry, as the mother of your child. It’s in all the _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ books.”

Tony snorted. Well, it wouldn’t be Sunset if she wasn’t being at least a little bit mercenary. “I can probably sneak you some coffee, and jewelry will have to wait at least until stores are open again. You’re on your own for the other two.”

“We’ll move her to the recovery room, now,” the nurse said. “You can talk with her again there.”

There were probably fewer things beeping in the recovery room, at least. Tony took advantage of the forcible separation to slip down to the hospital cafeteria and buy a large black coffee for himself, and a large coffee-flavored dessert beverage for Sunset. He made his way back up to the maternity ward, following the signs toward _Recovery_.

Sunset looked a little less terrible, but weary, with purple smudges under her dark eyes. “Thanks,” she said, making a weak, grabby hand for the coffee. “They’re going to keep me here about a week, and then--”

Tony nodded -- they’d need to make sure her kidney function was returning to normal. “And then?”

“Then we get to sit around at the NICU a lot, I suppose,” she said, then frowned down at her stomach. “I expected to look _less pregnant_ after the delivery.” She poked her stomach, still curved, with annoyance, then winced. “Ow.”

Tony had rather expected that, too. Probably what he got for basing his expectations on television and movies. He knew how bad the science was in those; why would he expect the medical stuff to be any more accurate? He wasn’t dumb enough to tell Sunset she still looked round and puffy, though. “I’m sure you’ll recover in no time,” he said diplomatically. He wondered if their fragile truce would hold long enough for them to put together some kind of custody arrangement without involving the courts.

“I hope so, I feel like a water balloon. All sloshy and gross.”

Well, that was unappealing. Tony looked around the little room. There was only a single visitor’s chair. It looked... uncomfortable. “Do, uh. Do you want me to stay?”

“No, go on home to your little Russian pre-paid family,” Sunset said. “Chris is coming in the morning, and I really don’t think you should be here. Morning being--” she yawned “--about an hour from now.”

Yeah, he definitely did not want to run into Christine Everhart, especially not with as little sleep as he’d had. He loftily ignored the dig at his family. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Text me when it’s safe to show my face again.” Not that he’d let Christine keep him from his daughter for long, but he’d give the ladies a few hours of their own. He’d probably be sleeping, anyway.

He turned, and hesitated on the threshold of the room. “You did good, Sunset.”

Sunset looked a little smug. “Yeah, yeah I think I did. Thanks, Tony.”

* * *

There was a man at the door, holding a simple bundle of flowers. Not that Tony hadn’t gotten a lot of flowers delivered to his office, to the penthouse, left outside the Tower. It seemed everyone in the world knew that Tony Stark had had a baby (most of the world seemed to forget that Sunset Bain had done most of the actual work, but hey, that was typical) and were eager to welcome the new arrival.

Usually, delivery guys only made it to the top floor, but this guy was wearing a nice suit, done in shades of charcoal and dark red, and he was wearing pink sunglasses and didn’t look anything like a delivery guy.

Bucky shrugged and opened the door. Tony wasn’t in, anyway, spending another precious hour in the NICU. Bucky hadn’t actually seen Morgan yet, just pictures, out of respect for the infant’s underdeveloped immune system. 

“Can I help you?” he asked.

The man smiled. Bucky had seen a lot of people smile since he came to America. Americans smiled. All the time. For no reason at all. Bucky was even quite fond of, say, Tony’s smile. But this man smiled like he was utterly unaware that he was doing it, just simply and completely happy.

It was oddly charming. 

The guy put his hand out, somewhat to the left of where Bucky actually was. “Hi, I’m Matt Murdock, you must be James. Is Natalia here?”

“One moment, I will see if she is available,” Bucky said. He didn’t -- not quite -- slam the door in the guy’s face, but he did scowl.

Not that the guy seemed to notice. He stepped inside the house without waiting for an invitation. He had a white cane, leaning at his side.

Oh. The blind guy. Right.

“Wait here.”

“Natasha,” he said, walking back toward their suite, “there is a Murdock here to see you?”

Natasha was dressed entirely too nicely for an afternoon of lounging around the penthouse. “Thank you,” she told Bucky. “I forgot to tell you, I was expecting him.” She glanced at the clock. “He’s a few minutes early.”

Bucky gave her a suspicious look. “You never forget anything,” he pointed out. “What are you up to?”

She rolled her eyes somewhat extravagantly. “I’m not _up to_ anything. Matt suggested that we might go to the botanical gardens, and I thought it would be nice.”

Bucky blinked, looked back over his shoulder. Matt was, in fact, navigating the front room with his cane, one hand out to inspect the various objects d’art that Tony had in nooks and on tables. Blind. Right. “Uh, why?”

“Why not? It’s boring just sitting around here all the time, and I haven’t seen the gardens.”

“He’s not going to see it either,” Bucky pointed out, which was probably rude.

“No,” Matt said, raising his voice a little to be heard from across the penthouse, “but it smells beautiful.” He tipped his head a little. “Are you worried about your sister? You can come along, if it would make you feel better.”

“Matt,” Natasha protested. “I am a grown woman.”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t want your brother to be suspicious of me.”

“He is suspicious of everyone,” Natasha said, giving Bucky a narrow-eyed glare.

“Not everyone,” Bucky said, then added, “Morgan has done nothing to garner a wary eye.”

But she was right. It was boring in the penthouse, especially with Tony gone more than half the time for work, or the hospital, and Bucky didn’t always feel comfortable going out in public, especially since Karen’s story had gone live, and people _knew who he was_. Maybe a small, group outing was just the thing.

“I would love to,” Bucky said, overriding Natasha’s protests.

“I’m sure we’ll all have a wonderful time,” Matt said. He offered the flowers he’d brought with him to Natasha. “For you. I hope they’re pretty; they smell very nice, anyway, and the petals feel very soft.”

“Very pretty,” Natasha agreed. “Let me put them in some water, and then we can go.”

They were pretty, Bucky noted. And they smelled quite good. For that matter, Matt Murdock smelled very good, some ritzy cologne that drifted subtly in the man’s wake. Hmm. Interesting, although Bucky figured if he couldn’t see, he’d want to find beauty elsewhere, too.

Murdock had ordered them an Uber and had it wait. "So few drivers," he said, "have patience with me. So I just call a handful of them."

The driver waved at them and offered a bowl of candy and iced water in the cooler.

"You are friends with Karen Page?"

"She used to work for me and my partner's law firm," Murdock said. 

Natasha nodded. “Matt is a brilliant lawyer,” she told Bucky. 

Bucky wasn't sure he'd know the difference between a good lawyer and a bad one. "Seems like an interesting job." That sounded neutral. 

"Nelson and Murdock. Avocados at law."

Bucky wondered if he _sounded_ as confused as he probably looked, since Murdock immediately started explaining that _lawyer_ in Spanish was _abogado_ and they did, in fact, work with a lot of Spanish speaking clients.

"We represent people who can't always afford lawyers. Go up against slum lords and shady banks. Sometimes we get paid in chickens."

“Altruists,” Natasha added. “They help many people who are in similar situations to where we were, in Moscow.”

Bucky nodded, then said, "That is good," since Murdock couldn't see him nod. Murdock asked about Moscow and Bucky stared out the window, not wanting much to think about the city that had never really been _home_.

Natasha told him about the things the tourists flocked to -- Red Square and St. Basil’s Cathedral, things that were beautiful because that was what people wanted to see. Murdock listened avidly, his head cocked as if he were imagining everything she described.

“It sounds lovely,” he said. “It’s too bad the politics spoil it so much.”

"Everyone's politics are bad," Bucky grumbled. Something about the way Murdock was sitting, giving Natasha his undivided attention, was a little unnerving. Maybe it had to do with being blind, never learning to keep his emotions off his face. Bucky found the man oddly -- even overly -- intense.

It was a relief to arrive at the gardens, to get out of the car and step away, to give Murdock some space for his examinations.

“The Flower Power exhibit first,” Natasha said. “And then I should like to see the Japanese gardens.”

Flower Power was a greenhouse exhibit, almost overwhelming with its suddenly lush heat and vibrant colors and strong scents. He nearly got lost in a stand of orchids, the alien, waxy blooms reaching toward him as if to whisper secrets in his ears.

When he found his way out of that nook, he spotted Natasha and Murdock a little ways ahead of him, admiring some sort of vine-y blooms.

“No, you need to experience it the way I do,” Murdock said, laughing, and he stepped up behind Natasha and put his hands over her eyes, leaning in close to say something else in a low tone that Bucky couldn’t quite catch.

The way she laughed, and the way she allowed it… _fuck_.

Bucky pulled out his phone and texted Tony. _Are you available? I need rescued._

 _For you, always,_ Tony’s text came back promptly. _What’s wrong?_

Natasha had her hands outstretched, like a child playing [Blind Man’s Bluff](https://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2018/russian-pictures-l18115/lot.37.html), reaching for the flowers. She looked completely delighted, what little he could see of her face around Murdock’s hands. Bucky raised his phone and took a photo, basically soundless, but Murdock’s head snapped around to face him like Bucky had tried to shoot them or something. Weird. He probably had very, very good hearing.

 _Think I might be crashing my sister’s date._ He added the picture to the bottom of the text. 

_Shit,_ Tony responded. _You are definitely crashing a date. How did that even happen? Where are you? I’m on my way._

 _I was bored._ Bucky texted. It wasn’t much of an excuse but it was what he had. _Botanical gardens. Powerful flower display_

_On it. Take me about half an hour._

Bucky paced around, trying to both stay in range, in case Murdock should have a case of grabby hands (in which case, he wasn’t sure if he’d be defending his sister’s honor, or keep her from murdering an American lawyer), and get out of range so he didn’t have to see or hear anything that he didn’t really want to witness.

But nothing of that sort happened. He covered Natasha’s eyes a few more times, and they stood close enough to bump shoulders with every small shift, but they didn’t so much as hold hands. Bucky began to wonder if _Natasha_ knew it was a date.

Twenty-five minutes later, the door to the greenhouse opened. Bucky couldn’t see it from where he was, but he could definitely _hear_ Tony.

“Yeah, okay, Flower Power, I get it. No, I can take it from here. Thanks, you’ve been a great help, Shirley, you’re definitely going on my Christmas card list.”

Natasha whirled around at the sound of Tony’s voice, her eyes widening and then, as she looked over at Bucky, narrowing.

Even having been expecting Tony, Bucky found himself turning in that direction, delighted to see him. Like a flower to the sun, which was thematically appropriate. “Solnishko,” Bucky said, raising his voice a little. “This way-- near the --” he leaned down to look at the display “--I can’t read this, it’s not even _English_.”

Tony’s laugh carried. “Just keep talking, I think I can follow-- Why is there a wall here? That is a dumb place for a wall. Okay, give me just a...” His muttering drifted farther away, and then came closer again. “What the hell is... that is an _ugly_ flower. Hang on; I’m taking a picture of this in case I ever need to send someone a really sarcastic bouquet.”

“I don’t think they sell most of these in the hothouse,” Bucky said, and then all but walked into the same wall himself, but -- ah, there -- “Tony.”

Tony turned around and beamed up at him. “Hey there, cupcake. How you doing?”

“It is even more flowery than I thought,” Bucky complained. “I did see a flower-- where was it, that reminded me of you. Oh, this is Natasha’s friend, Mr. Murdock. A lawyer. I don’t think he’s the kind that bites, though.”

“Mr. Murdock,” Tony said, extending a hand. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. And not all of it was about your martial arts prowess.”

“How can you--” Bucky started to say, then bit it off. _Rude_ , he scolded himself.

“Oh, I hear it all the time,” Murdock said. “It wouldn’t do to get arrested here for brawling in public, but if you want to come down to Fogwell’s Gym some time, I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

Tony nudged Bucky. “I’d like to see that. Can I record?”

“I was a street boxer, for a while, back in Moscow,” Bucky hesitated.

“Oh, good,” Murdock said. “I hate fighting people who don’t know how.”

That… sounded like a challenge. “All right, we will do that. For now, I want to show Tony a flower I saw. Did you drive?” He turned to Tony.

“Of course I drove,” Tony said, sounding vaguely insulted. “Come on, show me this flower. Mr. Murdock, I hope we’ll see you again soon.”

“I’ll just ride back with Tony,” Bucky said, because he was still wondering if Natasha knew she was on a date. He waved to her, and then put a hand on the small of Tony’s back to turn him. “Back this way, you couldn’t miss it.”

Tony followed along cheerfully enough. “Is there actually a flower?” he wondered quietly, when they’d gone several rows along.

“Would I lie,” Bucky posited. “Nevermind, of course I would lie. But I am not lying now. If -- ah, here it is.”

And [there it was](https://hips.hearstapps.com/hmg-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/images/vibrant-red-and-yellow-gazania-flower-royalty-free-image-594915222-1554736685.jpg), a bright yellow flower with red striations running through it.

“Wow.” Tony walked back and forth, looking at it from all angles, and then leaned in close to examine it. “Yeah, that’s me, all right.”

“Lovely, bright, draws attention,” Bucky said. “And I feel like this, every time you walk in the room.” 

Tony looked at Bucky, heart in his eyes. “That’s... wow.” He glanced around, then leaned in to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “That’s incredibly sweet.”

Bucky felt himself flush and hastily changed the subject. As much as he wanted to be out and proud, he still… wasn’t quite there yet. “What do you know about this Murdock?”

“Mm, a little. He’s a lawyer -- a damned good one, too. We tried to recruit him a couple of years ago, but he prefers working for the working class. Does a lot of _pro bono_ work. There are worse guys for your sister to date.”

“I don’t know if she knows she’s dating him, yet,” Bucky said. He looked back, even though they were no longer anywhere close to in range for him to see them. “He’s very pretty. Smells nice.”

“Should I be jealous?” Tony wondered, but he was smiling. “I’m pretty sure he’ll explain it to her eventually.”

“You should not,” Bucky decided, firmly. “I am only allowed to be interested in the same man as my sister once in my entire life. I have used it up now.”

“Oh yeah? On who?” Tony laughed at the look Bucky shot him. “I don’t think she was ever actually interested in me.”

“No, maybe not,” Bucky said. “Sometimes, I think she did this-- not just for me, but _for me_. That she found the best man in the entire world and decided ‘this is the man my brother should love.’”

“I don’t know about any best man,” Tony said, “but you might be right. The more I think about it, the more it seems when we were chatting on that website, there were a _lot_ of stories about her beloved brother. I thought at first it was so I’d agree to let her bring you along, but...” He shrugged. “She’s very devious when she wants to be.”

“Do not sell yourself short,” Bucky said. “You are very impressive.”

“Well, I know _that_.” Tony gave Bucky a heated look from under his lashes. “Want to go home and show me how impressed you are?”

“This I can do,” Bucky said, feeling that look all the way in the bottom of his gut. “And I will show you that you, also, can be impressed.”

“Oh, I’m always impressed by you. But I’m always happy to express my appreciation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Blind Man's Bluff](https://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2018/russian-pictures-l18115/lot.37.html)   
>  [Tony's flower](https://hips.hearstapps.com/hmg-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/images/vibrant-red-and-yellow-gazania-flower-royalty-free-image-594915222-1554736685.jpg)


	16. Chapter 16

“There is, in fact, no reason why Natalia and I couldn’t go to the ballet,” Matt was saying as they pushed into the Stark Tower’s lobby. “They have some amazing braille programming that I can follow along, and the music is lovely. Natalia can tell me what’s going on. And she would enjoy it.”

Natasha had bowed to the inevitable after the third date, and admitted that she was, in fact, dating Matt Murdock, and they’d just come in from a double date -- of sorts. Bucky still hadn’t come out, publicly, but it was starting to look like he wasn’t going to have other options. Not going out with Tony was probably worse than getting caught in public holding hands, or even just looking adoringly at each other.

Which Tony kept doing every time he thought Bucky wasn’t watching him. It was both cute and embarrassing at the same time.

“I can certainly pull a couple of strings and get ballet tickets,” Tony told Matt. “If that’s what you’re interested in doing.” He looked over at Bucky. “What about you, do you want to go to the ballet?”

It would give him an excuse to sit in a dark theater, next to Tony. Also, he did enjoy the ballet. “Why not? If Natasha doesn’t mind us crashing yet another date.” He nudged his sister, who poked him in the ribs. He jerked away, and spun out of range, which brought him almost directly in front of--

“Miss Bain,” Bucky stammered, coming to a halt.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” the security guard said, “she wanted to wait, and--”

Sunset was wearing a shawl draped artfully around her torso. A shawl that made a soft noise, and then moved. “Tony--”

Tony was at her side in an instant. “They released her?” He glanced over at Bucky and then at Natasha and Matt, and his nose wrinkled a little. “Come on up,” he told Sunset. “You have a bag or something I should help with?”

“Under the bench,” Sunset said. “I was going to text you, but they kept delaying it, and I wasn’t… I was too anxious to wait with someone, so I thought I’d let you know when we got closer, and then. Well, then we were here, and I got to wait some more.”

“Yeah, we were out.” He gestured grandly for everyone to board the elevator ahead of him. “I was going to come over to the hospital this evening. But I guess I can strike that from the schedule, now.”

Sunset peered around suspiciously at everyone, and then, apparently, decided no one was visibly a carrier for the plague or anything, and she peeled back the scarf to reveal a very small person with hardly any hair and a hat that she’d apparently knocked down over her face.

“Oh, hello there, sweetheart,” Tony crooned, reaching over with the hand that wasn’t holding Sunset’s enormous bag to straighten the little hat. “How’s the most beautiful girl in the world today, hm?”

“It is perhaps for the best that we did not work out,” Natasha said, smiling. “I would be jealous of such talk.”

Bucky and Natasha had been over to the hospital a few times, but because of the NICU rules, they’d only been allowed to see her through glass, while Tony held her up for their inspection. Bucky leaned over his sister’s shoulder to look at Morgan. “She looks very much like you,” Bucky remarked.

“If I hadn’t been there, I’d feel entirely incidental to the entire process,” Sunset complained. “She hasn’t got a feature on her that belongs to my side of the family. Little Stark cookie.”

“She may grow into it,” Tony appeased. “When I was little, everyone said I looked like my Mama, and as soon as I hit puberty, suddenly everyone decided I looked like Howard.”

Matt chuckled. “I had a professor who -- human biology, you know -- said that babies tend to resemble their fathers exactly _because_ the mother is so involved in the process. You know she’s your daughter; this gives Tony some evolutionary incentive to bond with his own offspring.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Tony mused. “I wonder if...” The elevator doors opened onto the penthouse, and he ushered them all in. “Have a seat, Sunset. You want something to drink?” He wandered into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of water.

“Please,” Sunset said, looking around Tony’s penthouse as if she’d never been there before, which was unlikely. Finally she sighed. “Here, hold her a moment, will you?” and offered the baby to Natasha. “It’s hard to sit down gracefully, even now. I really thought I’d have some shape back by now.”

She did not look pregnant anymore, but she did look... Soft. Round. And she’d complained to Tony any number of times about how ridiculously huge her bust had gotten.

None of these seemed like safe things to comment on.

Natasha took the little bundle, uncoordinated waving arms and all. “Hello, little one,” she said, smiling. “She weighs less than I expected,” she told Bucky.

“She seems huge to me,” Tony said, “but then she’s almost doubled in weight in the last two months.” He brushed a knuckle across Morgan’s cheek on his way to hand Sunset a bottle of water. “So. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to-- talk. And I thought if I gave you the home court advantage, you might be more inclined to listen to me.”

“Sound strategy,” Tony said, his expression giving nothing away. He settled on the sofa opposite Sunset, his limbs loose and sprawling. Claiming his space.

“For the purposes of this discussion,” Sunset said, “let’s all just acknowledge that I’m a terrible person. That’s undisputed. I know it. You know it. Your friends know it. People under rocks in the Australian Outback probably know it. I never really saw a reason to change.”

Tony’s eyebrows went up. “Are you going to tell me that the mystical bond of motherhood has turned you into a new person?”

“I think I shall just show myself out,” Matt said, leaning over to kiss Nat’s cheek over the baby. “I’ll call you, later.”

“Is this the face of a woman who’s had some sort of life-shattering epiphany?” She gestured to herself. “No, I’m saying we can save the pearl-clutching and shocked looks for someone who gives a shit.”

“Fair enough.” Tony cracked open his water and took a swig, knocking it back as if it were whiskey. “Say your piece, then.”

“I had a plan, and a backup plan,” Sunset said. “I get pregnant, you marry me, I get money. I have the baby, you don’t marry me, you give me money to either support her, or to get custody. In any case, I accomplish my goal, which is to keep my grandmother’s company from going broke. And it was fun. Right?” She sighed. “Any way it went, I was going to get something I wanted out of it.”

“Maybe,” Tony said. “What’s changed?”

Sunset shrugged, as if she was embarrassed to admit it. “I-- I love her, Tony.”

Tony blinked. “You... Are you saying you want custody?”

“Joint custody,” Sunset said. “We both live in the city, it wouldn’t be that hard to arrange it, would it? I’m not… I don’t want you to take her and only see her once a year, if that.”

“Joint... Really? Because this is a lot of work, a lot of very personal attention, here, that you’d have to provide.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Sunset said. “You’re not exactly giving off single-dad vibes here, either. I’d need help, but-- I want this, Tony. Don’t make me fight for it. No one wants that.”

Tony pushed a hand through his hair, making it all stand up on end. “I have a nursery,” he said. “Do you even have a crib?”

“There’s a bassinet attachment with the portable that Chris gave me,” Sunset said. “The whole thing folds up so I can carry it around like a suitcase, and it’s a changing table and crib and playpen all at the same time. Good thing I have an engineering degree, though. It was hard to set up the first time. The directions weren’t even in English.”

Tony broke on a laugh. “Yeah, okay, the crib we got took me four hours to put together. _Me_. How long does that shit take for regular people with degrees in, like, English or Political Science?” He sighed and slumped back against the couch. He looked over at Natasha, who was still holding Morgan, bouncing and cooing quietly. Matt, Bucky realized, seemed to have vanished. Hadn’t wanted to intrude on a family matter, probably. Bucky vaguely remembered him saying something before he went poof like a blind ninja.

Then Tony looked over at Bucky, one eyebrow raised. _What do you think?_

“My foster-father,” Bucky offered, tentatively, “said once that all you needed for a baby was a dresser drawer for her to sleep in. If it can be settled without fighting, maybe you should try it. She will be no less your daughter, for having her mother in her life.”

Tony sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. We can... We’ll figure out a schedule or something. Week on, week off? Or two weeks, maybe?” He shrugged a little. “Might have to try a few things, see what works best.”

“Thank you,” Sunset said. “If you want-- gesture of good faith, or something. You take her, the first-- for a few days. It’ll give me time to get my apartment ready for her?”

Tony glanced at the baby again, and then nodded. “Okay. I mean, yeah, we’re ready, here, been all set up for weeks. You... Okay. A few days, to start. We can do that.”

“Good, that’s… we’ll figure it out,” Sunset said. “There’s about half a tin of the formula in her diaper bag. Text me if you need something. I’m going home and drowning myself in the shower.”

Tony chuckled. “Okay. I’ll -- gesture of good faith -- I’ll text you some pics, couple times a day. And maybe you can convince Christine Everhart to stop trying to make me look bad.”

“She doesn’t have to try that hard,” Sunset quipped, but she was smiling a little. “I’ll talk to her,” she conceded. Entirely unselfconscious about it, she demanded her child back from Natasha and cuddled with her, before finally handing the infant over to Tony. “Take good care of her,” she scolded, and then air-kissed Tony’s cheek.

“Of course,” Tony said, sounding vaguely insulted, though thoroughly captivated by the little bundle in his arms.

“We won’t let him turn her into a cyborg,” Bucky promised.

“Today,” Natasha added. “We won’t let him do it _today_.”

Tony huffed. “Of course not,” he said. “You put in implants before they’re through puberty and you just have to replace them every six months while they grow.”

“Anthony Stark,” Sunset said, waggling a finger at him. “No technical enhancements before kindergarten. At _least_.”

For just a moment, there, Bucky was intensely grateful that Sunset was a self-admitted horrible person. If she’d had a spark of humanity in her, Bucky was positive that Tony would have been too smitten to realize he was being used. As it was, he didn’t entirely trust the covetous look she was shooting at Tony, until he decided she was actually gazing at the child, and not at Tony.

Morgan cradled close, Tony politely walked Sunset to the elevator. When the doors closed and the car descended, Tony leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, breathing.

“You okay, solnyshka?” Bucky asked, taking a hesitant step toward Tony.

Tony’s eyes opened and he smiled at Bucky. “Never better,” he said. “I might mean that literally. Look at her, sweetheart. She’s _here_. She’s _home_.”

“Yes,” Bucky said. “We are all home at last.” And that was truer than anything he’d ever said before. Tony looked at his child with awe, with wonder, but it wasn’t the same, obsessive, exclusive adoration that Sunset had. Tony’s love was encompassing all of them.

“Our little family’s finally complete.” Tony kissed Morgan’s forehead, then stepped into Bucky’s space. “Want to hold her? She’s yours, too, you know.”

Bucky didn’t know that he’d ever wanted anything else. “She is still very small,” he said, cradling her. The baby opened up those brown eyes, so much like her father’s, blinking at him. Apparently, she decided he was acceptable, because she made a tiny little hiccup, and went back to sleep.

“Babies hiccup?” Bucky asked, because it had never occurred to him that they might. “That… should not be so cute.”

“I know, right?” Tony brushed her cheek with his finger, then leaned over her to kiss Bucky. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for this fic!
> 
> Stay tuned - on Thursday, we'll start posting The Groomsman, which is (yet another) historical fiction that we are blaming _entirely_ on feignedsobriquet, who drew some gorgeous art that we really, _really_ wanted to write something for.


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